


I'm Your Nickelodeon

by Cluegirl



Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Chicken (game of), Costume Kink, Exhibitionism, Leather, M/M, Masturbation, Polyamory, Scenting, Voyeurism, one-upsmanship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:20:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just a little furtive jacking-off in the shower; no harm done, and Steve's seen worse in the army.  Heck, he's seen worse on Tony's YouTube tag, so why on earth Tony hiding in his workshop over it now?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of course you realize...

_Drop a nickel in, give me a try,_  
 _turn my crank, I'm your kinda guy._  
 _You'll want to catch my number again and again;_  
 _I'm your nickelodeon._

"I'm sorry Captain Rogers," said Jarvis, sounding like he meant it, "but Sir has instructed me to say that he is busy working."

"He's organizing a socket set," Steve growled, pointing through the glass wall. "I can see him right there."

Jarvis went on, unruffled. "And as Sir is not to be disturbed, I am to hold all his calls and messages, including and especially, visitors."

Steve sighed, and rubbed at his face with one hand, the toe of his boot rattling an untouched take away bag. "And is he instructing you to hold his meals as well?" It wasn't fair, he knew; Jarvis was as close to human as a machine could be, but he really couldn't do what his creator expressly forbade him to do, which meant that when Tony was being utterly, pig-headedly _stupid_ about something that was completely trivial and meant nothing whatsoever, Jarvis had no choice but to be his enabler. 

"I have informed Sir of your previous food deliveries," Jarvis replied, a little chillier now. "He has preferred to consume chlorophyll and protein powder shakes instead." 

_'*Because he doesn't have to look DUM-E in the eye and try not to blush while he's drinking his grass-clippings and whey.*'_ But Steve kept that thought behind his teeth – he'd offended Jarvis enough already. Instead he gave another sigh, glanced at Tony – or the half of him that was now sticking out from under the roadster, anyway – and bent to collect some of the bags and dishes. "Jarvis could you let Tony know that I'm here and I'd like to talk to him at least?"

"I'm afraid that's not possible, Captain."

Steve looked up, surprised to find Jarvis _that_ uncooperative, but then he noted the proliferation of dirty cups, the chaos of tools all scattered within arm's reach, the bots all moping in their charging stations, and he had to smile. "He muted you in the workshop, didn't he?"

"I have override capacity in case of emergencies..." Steve knew he didn't imagine the hopeful, canny note that crept into Jarvis' voice then. And he _was_ tempted. Technically he could claim that clearing the air after the awkward moment they'd had back on the Helicarrier was of genuine importance for the team's function. He could also invoke the ghost of SHIELD Medical, and the minor head wound Tony had taken in that battle, but never got checked out properly. He could even invoke the post-mission debriefing that Tony had missed when he bolted out of the locker room showers, leapt back into his armor and ran for home at top speed. But none of those were actual emergencies, and Steve didn't like the idea of getting Jarvis into trouble over what _still_ amounted to nothing.

So instead, he just took up the pile of dishes and headed back to the elevator. "No, it's nothing like that," he said as the doors slid open. "It's just... well, did he tell you about what happened at all? After the battle, I mean?"

"He did not, Captain," Jarvis replied, and now he sounded frankly curious. "Though his reactive behavior leads me to believe that whatever public embarrassment happened on the Helicarrier, it did not involve the press, Ms. Potts, SHEILD regulations, the World Security Council, or an argument with yourself."

Steve chuckled and shook his head. "Nope, I wouldn't call that an argument by any stretch." The elevator opened on the team's shared kitchen, sink already running, trash compactor bumped open in blatant invitation.

"I walked in on him masturbating in the shower," Steve said once he'd made sure the room was empty of any other Avengers. 

Jarvis was silent for a long moment. Then, once Steve had finished scraping the dishes and moved to the sink, he asked, "And... was that all?"

"Yeah," Steve answered, half amused, half perplexed. "He must've been distracted when I came in and started up my own shower, because he didn't notice I was there till, um... afterward." He put the dishes into the machine and dried his hands, trying not to blush at the memory. "And I didn't notice what he was doin' until he started getting a little... um... enthusiastic about it."

"Ah."

Steve rubbed his neck, glad he didn't need to go into any details. "Yeah. 'Ah'. I know the team likes to joke, but I was in the _Army_ for Pete's sake! A thousand or more fellas in camp all sharing the same showers; a half a dozen enlisted men to a tent, and it took higher rank than mine to rate your own place. Out in the field, there was even less privacy. So I've seen and heard worse and weirder than one man enjoying the company of his own right hand. I never let it bother me before, and it sure didn't bother me last night... or this morning, I guess it was." He sighed and turned to lean on the counter. "But Tony's..." he waved a hand in the general direction of the Workshop/foxhole/hermit cave, "And he won't even give me the chance to tell him that it's just not a big deal."

"What's not a big deal?" Clint breezed into the room at full stride, bold as brass in purple boxers and a t-shirt with a shooting target printed in a rather ill-advised spot over the belly. 

"Jacking off after a battle," Steve sighed. Clint could be relentless when he thought someone was being evasive. "Sometimes you just need to dump some excess adrenaline, right?" He pointedly blocked Clint's grab for the coffeemaker, pulled a mug from the cupboard, and poured it full for him. "I'm sure we all do it."

"Sure," Clint shrugged, reaching over the full mug to take the carafe anyway. "Sometimes I rub one out _before_ going into the field, just to take the edge off, you know?" He took a slug straight from the pot, and grinned at Steve's reproachful glare.

"You know someone else might want some of that," Steve said, folding his arms over his chest.

"Not anymore they don't," Natasha said, gliding in to take up the mug Steve had poured, and propping her hip against the counter, so close Steve could smell the spicy scent of her sweat beneath her workout gear. "Is there a reason we're talking about sex in the kitchen?"

"Well, we're actually talking about Tony in his workshop," Steve corrected, because there was a difference between having seen it all, and recounting the gory details to his teammates later, and despite being a soldier, he still liked to think of himself as a gentleman. "I doubt much sex happens there. What?" he asked as Clint snorted coffee through his nose and Natasha snickered. "You've got to be kidding, the state he keeps that place in? It'd hardly be safe, let alone sanitary!"

"I believe the term 'sanitary' is rarely applicable when one is discussing Sir's sexual proclivities, Captain Rogers," Jarvis put in primly as Clint coughed harder and ducked away from Steve's attempts to slap his back.

"And 'safe' is arguable too," Natasha agreed. "Look at his You Tube tag."

Steve winced and shook his head. "No thanks. Once was enough."

"In Sir's defense, approximately 73% of those videos are significantly altered, if not outright fakes," Jarvis put in loyally. "And of the remainder, 89% are clips taken from the victory party of the United States' Soccer Team at the Summer Olympics of-"

"My point!" Steve cut in hastily. "The one I was making here, was that if Tony Stark can get up to that kind of thing without a flinch, _and_ leave comments on the posters' websites critiquing their editing style, then there's no goddamned reason why he should go all bashful over a little masturbation!" It was only when the ringing silence descended afterward, and he found both Clint and Natasha staring at him with raised eyebrows that Steve realized he'd been shouting.

And there went his blush again, damn it. He grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter, and bit it before his darned mouth could get him into any more trouble. 

"I had just been consulting with Captain Rogers as to the best way to open a dialogue on the subject, given Sir's current state of-"

"Mania?" Natasha supplied, arch and sweet.

"Up-fuckery?" Clint offered at the same moment.

"Guys..."

"Self-absorption? Obsessive avoidance?"

"Epic fucking tantrum?"

"Seriously, it's not-"

"What's Tony done now?" Asked Bruce from the doorway, pale and weary in his pajamas, his pillow-crazed hair still streaked with plaster dust from the battle of the night before.

"Well aside from ditching the debriefing as well as the medical check after the fight last night, I'm not sure," Clint said cheerfully, offering the half-full carafe to Bruce. "We're wringing the story out of Cap now, but it apparently involves masturbation."

"Huh," Bruce replied, and took a long, thoughtful slug of coffee from the carafe. Then he cut a glance Steve's way. "Just Tony masturbating or..."

Steve groaned and put his hand over his face. " _Yes!_ ," he said through his teeth. "Tony was jacking off in the shower. I saw him, he saw me, and he's been hiding in his workshop for something like eighteen hours now, with Jarvis locked out, his phone turned off, and all the override codes disabled, and it's utterly ridiculous, because he's a goddamn adult, and so am I, and I don't damn well _care_ what he does with his own privates! Damn it!" 

And he was shouting again. Wonderful. Steve bit the apple and chewed savagely, glaring at the digital readout on the stove, and trying not to see how his team were giving each other significant looks behind his back.

"Yeah, so less than convinced about the not-caring part, Cap," Clint observed as Bruce handed him back the carafe. 

"Oh, for Pete's sake-"

"What Clint is failing to say," Natasha cut short Steve's attempt to storm out of the kitchen with a small, solid hand on his elbow, "is that maybe the problem is that you _don't_ care about it."

He took a bracing breath. "Tony's always complaining that I'm too judgmental," he said, level and calm and utterly, completely rational. "And now he's mad at me because he _wanted_ me to condemn him?"

"Whoosh..." said Clint, and sliced a hand through the air over his head.

"He doesn't want you to condemn him, Steve," Bruce said, coming near to pat his other arm with grubby hands. "From the sound of it, he didn't particularly expect you to be watching him get off at all. But I do think he was hoping that you would _care_."

Steve stared at him, waiting. He knew how this kind of thing went; first the setup, (he looked at Clint, who was staring back with obvious impatience, but no particular malice,) then the reeling in, lining the patsy up just right, (Natasha was watching him with frank, expectant eyes, not a tickle of amusement curling her lips,) and then, with perfect timing, the punchline. (Bruce's eyes were gently hopeful, faintly pleading, and his smile was nothing but kindness.)

Steve closed his eyes after counting twenty heartbeats, and blew out a breath he probably shouldn't have been holding. "You think he has a crush on me." He didn't bother making it a question. Apparently it wasn't one to anybody else.

"Ding ding ding!" Clint cried, clapping his hands. "Give that man the giant fluffy unicorn!"

"Clint..." The synchronicity of Natasha and Bruce saying it in precise unison and identical warning tones might have been eerie, if Steve hadn't been more interested in hiding behind his palm again.

"What? The penny's dropped!" Clint bounded over the counter with a showman's grin, keeping well out Steve's reach as he went to the bar and began to rummage for tequila. "The curse of UST is broken, the Man Pain banished, the sleepers awake, and I say this calls for a fucking celebration now: who wants pizza and margarita shooters?"

"Nobody does pizza with margarita shooters, and we are _NOT_ watching Farscape, Barton," Bruce said following the archer into the lounge and dropping into the easy chair.

"I vote for drag queens," Natasha put in, hopping off the countertop without letting go of Steve's arm, and drawing him to the sofa. "Jarvis, we have something good with drag queens in it, right?"

"I believe I have just the thing, Agent Romanov," Jarvis replied as the television flickered to life and the video menu scrolled quickly by. And Steve, who always knew how to pick his battles, even if sometimes he threw that knowledge out with the bathwater, settled back into the sofa, accepted a coke and a bowl of popcorn, and allowed himself to be temporarily distracted. 

"So am I supposed to know who this Wong Foo fella is?" he asked as the opening credits began to play.

~*~

"There is a delivery for you, Sir." Jarvis' voice was gentle and his tone low, but it still startled Tony bolt upright over his workbench, wide eyed, half-hard and with a name on his lips.

"Ste - ill holding calls," he yelped, flinching as a steel washer fell off his cheek and chimed on the floor. "And packages. Front desk, Jarvis. Tell them to sign for me." He adjusted himself carefully and wished yet again that he'd grabbed sweatpants instead of jeans when he'd come down here (calmly, rationally, and without any chicken-shit evasion whatsoever, thank you,) three days ago. The zipper was beginning to chafe.

"I'm sorry Sir, but the courier is from Ms. Potts, and says he has instructions to put it into no one's hands but your own. He's outside the workshop now."

"Wait, what?" Tony dropped his hand from his crotch and turned to look. Sure enough, there was a bike messenger in spandex, tats, and a soul patch, peering through the glass with way much curiosity for someone who made a living with his thighs. He was going to have a serious talk with that woman about her damned security breaches, Tony decided as he scrubbed at his face, dislodging two screws and a bit of wire that had apparently got stuck to his cheek while he was sleeping (not passed out, sleeping. And NOT dreaming mortifyingly hot things about his big blond inappropriate attachment problem either, thanks.) 

Tony grabbed his mug, hoping the cold, dark liquid inside it was coffee, or at least was caffeinated. "Tell Pepper that I-"

"Ms. Potts is en route to Madrid at present," Jarvis interrupted, no distant shred of mercy to be found in his tone. "Her phone is turned off, but it appears she has recorded an automated response to any calls from you..." 

"Well that's just-"

Jarvis played the message, volume loud enough to drown his complaint. "Tony damn it, I told you I don't have time to run Stark International, and field Avengers business too!" Tony flinched again as Pepper's most ironclad annoyed-voice filled his workshop with echoes. "This is your problem, and I expect you to handle it. Now man up and sign Jacob's invoice because this conference in Madrid stands to get us a solid foothold in the EU, and if you make me leave early to come home and clean up even twelve percent of your superhero drama, I will personally take pleasure in making sure you regret it." 

"I regret it already," Tony mumbled to his palms as Pepper's rant cut abruptly off into ringing silence. He took a drink of the cold, greasy coffee, and had to spit out another screw that had been lurking in the bottom of the cup. But hey -- it did wonders for that pesky erection he'd been trying to ignore out of existence since it had gotten him in trouble on Monday. 

The workshop intercom buzzed. "Um, so are you gonna sign for this, or what?" The kid called in the tone of one who didn't care much about his tips. "I got other deliveries to make today."

Tony glared at him. "Captain Rogers can sign for it," he said, waving vaguely upwards. "Jarvis will show you to-"

"The Captain is not in the tower at present," Jarvis cut in.

"Doesn't matter," the kid said. "I don't get you to sign for it, I can't let anybody take it anyhow."

"You're gonna try and play keep-away with Captain America?" Tony grinned, all double-dog dare. "This, I gotta see."

"Whatever dude," he said, dropping the little package back into his bag with an iconic eyeroll. And as immediately appealing as it would be to let the problem just go away on its own, there was Pep's wrath to consider, as well as the bigger problem of his own curiosity. 'Avengers business' could mean anything in Pepper language, from insurance paperwork to death threats from a new big bad, and if he let Jacob the Bike Messenger walk away with them, Tony knew he'd be chasing the little creep down in the street to get them back. 

"All right," he sighed, getting his feet under him in a scramble of socket wrench heads. "Jarvis, buzz the little visigoth in."

"This way please, Mr. Jensen," Jarvis said, and unlocked the door.

"Dude," the kid flinched, "where'd that... There's nobody else-"

"The computer is your friend, trust the computer, " Tony interrupted, sweeping aside a jumble of carburetor components, a disassembled toaster, three repulsor gauntlets and a pile of shop-vac attachments. "There. Put it down right there. No, not on that crate, Jesus, can't you see the explosives warning? Put it here. Yeah, and the clipboard too. Just put it down and don't touch anything. Fine, now just..." he ignored the kid's white-eyed rubbernecking, scribbled on the receipt, and shoved the clipboard back into his hands. "Look, I don't have any cash on me," he said as he grabbed the small package with one hand and chivvied the kid back out into the hallway with the other, "So just tell Jarvis what your PayPal is, and he'll see about your tip, okay? Great."

"You want me to give your household Skynet my banking data," Jacob the Bike Messenger replied with an entirely unjustified eyebrow. "Yeah, cause there's no way _that_ could possibly go wrong. Later, Mr. Hughes. Been a pleasure." Tellingly, the sarcastic little shit headed for the stairs instead of the elevator, but Tony figured if he was dumb enough to insult both him and his AI and still imagine that neither of them could get to him anywhere in the building, then he deserved the best payback Jarvis' programming parameters allowed. 

Which was quite a lot, when Pepper and Cap weren't around, actually.

Feeling strangely comforted by the encounter, Tony turned his attention to the problem at hand. The package offered no clues at all; brown paper wrapped, Pepper's corporate address hand-written in blue felt-tip pen, half covered by the computer printed correction the courier agency slapped onto it. Tony knew the thing wouldn't have made it past the sniffers in the lobby if it contained anything dangerous, but it still seemed to sit heavy, potent and ominous in his hand. Like whatever the box contained, be it threat, plan, design, virus, or manifesto, could change the whole world...

"Oh for fuck's sake," he grumbled to himself and clawed the damned thing open. A thumbdrive fell out of the remnants, clattering shiny and blue on the grease stained floor, and Tony said it again. "Oh, for fuck's _sake_! Seriously? What, do villains not understand the meaning of the word 'genius' anymore?"

But even as he spoke, Tony pulled out one of his isolation tablets and keyed it on. Whatever surprises the sender had loaded onto the mysterious 'Avengers Business' thumb drive, it wouldn't be going any farther than the screen in Tony's hands, no matter how aggressive its payload. 

There were two files on the thing, and after running his heaviest diagnostics and malware scrubbers over them, they still refused to reveal themselves as anything other than what they seemed; a video file, and a bare-bones viewer. Which meant it could be fan mail. Or an extortion attempt. Or a manifesto. Or... oh hell, a challenge to honorable single combat with rubber chickens at fifty paces. There was only one way to find out, really. He picked at the coding for a few minutes, and uptweaked the viewer's resolution capacity and buffering, because there was only so much patience he had on the tail end of a three-day creation binge. Then he settled back and punched 'play.'

The video started with a black screen, thudding, rhythmic impacts in a space that rang with echoes, and the chuff of heavy breathing so close, so loud it practically felt damp on Tony's cheek. (Though that could have been the sweaty welts where the screws had been stuck, too.) Tony had just about decided to write the whole thing off for a very elaborate uptick on the old 'heavy breathing crank call' when the screen went from black, to a blur of colors that gradually congealed into shape and movement...

And became Cap, flushed and gorgeous and gleaming with sweat as he ran up the Tower's central staircase. The camera appeared to be the main security web, zoomed in tight and panning lightly in place to follow him around the rising spiral, and damn, was that ever some fine picture quality going on there. 

Tony sat back in his chair and propped the tablet on a broken repulsor boot. Cap was dressed for his morning jog, sweatpants clinging to his hips, his tight, wet shirt clinging to him everywhere else, and even from two floors down, the camera could catch the happy gleam in those blue eyes as he pushed himself up to the -- Tony peered, then whistled through his teeth – 73rd floor. 

"Damn, Cap," he murmured, "You got something against elevators?"

Then, as if in response, Steve's voice cut over the ambient sound of his ascent, measured and even, clearly recorded later. "You're not the only one who laughs at me for this, Tony. People don't realize it, but I hear their comments when I run on the street, or when I use the gymnasium at SHIELD." He chuckled, and Tony squirmed in his seat a little. "I've heard all the speculations about it; displaced aggression, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, self-medicating the PTSD everyone assumes I must be hiding. One of the head shrinkers at Shield even asked if I was afraid the serum would fail me if I stopped exercising every day..." 

Steve's tone was light, rich with amusement, but also layered with something more, something that snuck through Tony' half-panicked realization that Steve had jumped through some pretty goddamned elaborate hoops to get Tony watching this, and that could very well turn out to be a worse thing than the 'We Should Talk' he'd been sure was coming from the moment he lit out of the Helicarrier on Monday. There was a subtle, sneaky kind of dare in that familiar voice, and it kept Tony's hand neatly away from the 'stop' button despite his wariness.

"Fact is, I just love how it feels; to push my body and feel it respond." On the screen, Steve had stopped at the top landing and bent over, hands braced on his knees, his broad back working and flexing with each breath as if great, invisible wings were anchored there. "I love feeling my blood rise, my muscles working smooth, my heart pounding and pounding never skipping a beat." 

He bent further then, straightened his knees, and slapped both palms on the cement either side of his running shoes. The wet nylon shirt tugged up over flushed skin, and through that skin Tony could see the bones of Steve's lower spine ridged out like pearls beneath the thick bed of muscle. "Best of all, I love the air filling my lungs all the way down over and over again, and never stitching up on me..." Then he swung upright again, and those thick-corded arms came up, fingers lacing over his head as Steve tipped back and gave the watching camera a blue-eyed double-dog-dare of a grin. "Only one thing feels better than that."

And then he bent backwards from the waist -- just arched out long and strong and fucking improbable over empty space, so that there was no _fucking_ way Tony could miss the goddamned erection that was tenting out the front of those sweatpants. Especially when, without straightening up, Steve brought both his hands down and goddamn well _rubbed_ the monster right through the cloth!

"Jesus..." Tony wheezed, mesmerized as Steve's fingers made the length and girth all too clear for a couple strokes. Then the Steve on the screen stood upright again – all rippling abs and flexing thighs, and dear sweet mother of chrome but that man was a work of art. Tony realized that his own prick was very eagerly interested in the proceedings, and also being quietly strangled in the pinch of his jeans. "Jesus, _fuck_!" he growled, wrenching open his flies to grasp after some relief.

"Too bad you didn't put any cameras in the showers, Tony," Steve said – no, he fucking _purred_. "We coulda talked about how much I like that other thing too. Fun to watch, yeah, but more fun in practice, isn't it?" He shot the stairwell camera a jaunty salute and reached for the door, and there the picture froze, warped, and scrambled abruptly into static.

Tony was on his feet in a second, typing fast and futile commands into the tablet, but it was no good. The video, once played, had eaten itself in a spiteful flurry of code that there was simply no _way_ Captain Analog had written. That was more Romanov's style, though Tony's beleaguered dignity groaned and writhed at the idea of _her_ being in on the utter heat-death of his self-respect where not-crushing-on-his-straight-teammate was concerned. Then again, maybe Rogers wasn't quite so straight as all that. Maybe. Probably. Tony really needed to see that video again to decide. 

But it was no good; the video file and even its player were corrupted beyond rescue now – a useless ooze of ones and zeroes, sloshing about the thumbdrive and firewalled tablet like so much melted Popsicle. And damned if Tony wouldn't still have stolen a lick, if he thought no one would see.

"Fine," he decided, kicking his chair away. "Fine. It is _on,_ old man. Jarvis!"

"Sir?"

"First, I want it known that I am choosing to overlook your obvious complicity in this little setup."

"Magnanimous as ever, Sir."

"Damn straight. Second, where the fuck is Steve right goddamned now?"

"Captain Rogers does not appear to be in the Tower at present, Sir," Jarvis answered, his voice shaded over with just _that_ much coy amusement as Tony scowled. "But from the itinerary he had discussed before leaving with Agents Romanov and Barton, I surmise he will return in approximately fourty minutes, allowing for traffic." The workshop door disengaged its locks with a pointed click. "Might I recommend a shower in the meantime?"

Tony laughed, too punchy, too giddy, too horny with glee to keep it in. "You sayin' I stink, J?" He sassed, tucking his turgid prick out of harm's way and tugging his t shirt low enough to hide his still-opened fly.

"Lacking a nose, Sir, I would not presume. However the filtration system data does suggest that the workshop atmosphere has known fresher days."

"Right," he grinned back. "Well, send a message to Ms. Interfering Potts; tell her I'm activating The Avengers Exception, and also challenging her co-conspirator to a duel."

"I can already imagine her shock, Sir." Any drier, and Jarvis' voice would have cracked. 

"Psht. It's her own fault for plotting against me with Captain Sasspants," he replied, his brain already swirling with possibilities, his belly still pooling with lust. "She should be glad I'm not sending her documentation. Now activate the security cameras in the master bathroom for me, and route all those feeds directly to my tablet. I feel a burst of creativity coming on..."

~*~

Two days later, Steve looked up from his newspaper and coffee to see Tony sauntering into the kitchen like nothing had ever happened. Like he'd never even noticed the video Steve had made for him, which Steve would have known he'd watched even if Jarvis hadn't ratted Tony out, purely on the evidence of the video of Tony's shower that he'd found playing on his apartment television when he and Clint and Natasha had got back from their meeting with Fury. An endless loop of soap and skin and slick, shiny, very naked Tony playing over and over and over again, but always cutting short of the... end.

Which, Steve had to admit, was probably fair play. Natasha had been amused, at least, and she'd left him on his own to figure out how to get the darned thing to quit playing so he could get some sleep, too. Jarvis had been helpful there, at least.

"Morning Cap," Tony said, all easy cheer as he breezed through to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup. "Sleep okay?" So they were going for 'Cleared Air, Nothing To Discuss Here' then. Which Steve could definitely _do_ \-- he'd had plenty of practice at that with Bucky and his girlfriends back in the day. And it sure put paid to the team's silly idea that Tony was carrying any sort of torch -- that reply video had been all dare, without a single trace of genuine invitation. Exactly the sort of thing someone would send when he didn't want to give the other fella the last word.

Which was fine, really; Steve could do the 'Friends Who Give Each Other a Hard Time' thing too -- probably better for the team that way too, when you got right down to it. But he'd never been one to give the other fella the last word either, had he? A reply in kind was practically required of him at this point. 

"Yeah. Haven't slept so well since I was frozen," Steve smirked and turned the page, pretending not to notice Tony choking on his first sip. "You doing okay?"

"Yep!" he chirped back, perhaps trying just a _little_ harder than normal. "Ship shape and Bristol fashion, and all that jazz. Why, shouldn't I be?"

Steve nodded and took another drink. "Oh, sure, it's just you know, last I saw of you, you were looking a little..." he waved a hand, pursed his lips as if he was searching for a polite way of saying it, but secretly he was just drawing out the impish grin that was lighting up in Tony's eyes. "Hard-pressed..."

Sure enough, Tony belted out a laugh, and his grin turned straight into a leer. "Oh, I've been pressed harder," he purred. "Why, I didn't shock you, did I?"

His cheeks were heating up, and so Steve let a smile slip shyly out of cover. "Maybe a little."

And that made Tony outright crow. "What, didn't folks get up to those kinds of shenanigans back in the day?" he asked, right-footed and confident at last.

Steve almost felt sorry for him. Almost. "No, we did that kind of thing and more," he answered, finishing his coffee and folding up his paper, "It's just in my day we knew better than to use soap for it." 

He stood, tucked his paper under his arm, and clapped a sympathetic hand on Tony's shoulder. "I gotta say, even with the serum's healing factor, I wouldn't wanna get that much shower gel in a place _that_ sensitive." He leaned close to murmur, close enough to feel the pulse of heat rising into Tony's cheek, to smell the product he's slicked into his hair, to put out his tongue, if he'd chosen to, and sneak a taste of the sweat just popping out on Tony's temple. "You must be itching like _crazy_ now."

He gave himself precisely one second to enjoy the stunned look that flitted across Tony's face, the convulsive swallow, the blink of disbelief. Then Steve gave the genius a bracing shoulder slap, and heading back to his own apartment, an idea for his own video reply already forming up nicely in his mind. 

The last word was one thing, but Steve knew Tony well enough to realize that their merry little war was far from over. His enhanced hearing gave him one final gift however – encouragement, appreciation, or maybe fair warning in the form of Tony's low, breathy murmur as the elevator doors closed between them. 

"Oh Captain, you have no idea..."


	2. Impetuous, but nice...

_Peek beneath the curtain, get a surprise_   
_I'll sing you a lullabye to pull you inside_   
_Grab the brass ring, I'll give you a thrill_   
_I'm your nickelodeon_

 

"Hasn't he finished it yet?" Tony grumbled, drumming his fingers on the workbench as fire-solution code skimmed through the air before him. He'd never been good at waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he had enough sense to realize that Cap was probably using exactly that impatience against him. 

He could wait his turn in this duel of theirs, he told himself; rules of engagement and all that -- gentlemen's conduct, for certain dubious definitions of 'gentlemen'. But that didn't mean Tony had to wait _gracefully._

To his credit, Jarvis didn't bother to ask for clarification this time. "I believe the Captain is still editing his video, Sir."

"What, with scissors and fish glue?" Tony snapped back. "It's been, like, a week!"

"It has been two days, eight hours, and twenty five minutes, Sir, and in that time you have queried me on this topic no less than –"

"Spare me the statistics, J," Tony growled, punching 'save' and sweeping that program out of his way. "I'm just glad to be opening a dialogue with the good Captain after our earlier misunderstanding. I'm eager to hear what he has to say next."

"I had noticed your fascination with the Captain's lingual skills, Sir."

And really, Jarvis' sarcasm was getting _right_ out of hand. It was probably Pepper's fault. "You know what? I do not want to know about it if he's a cunning linguist, I just do NOT want to know." Tony cut both hands through the air to demonstrate his disinclination as firmly as possible. "That data is not relevant to my interests, except as it reflects on the question of whether he has a gag reflex or-"

"Captain Rogers appears to be saving a video file to a portable memory device, Sir," Jarvis interrupted him. "Would you like me to divert a copy to your desktop before he erases the master file?"

"Quit asking stupid questions and get me that file, Jarvis," Tony barked, setting the workshop windows to opaque and spinning his chair to face the largest monitor he had.

As before, the video clip began with sound – a hissing, friction noise this time, long and slow and rhythmic, dry against dry, smooth against rough. Just enough to make Tony's mind flood with all the fucking gorgeous things Steve could be petting to make that noise (and if that list included himself, well nobody had to know that, did they?) 

Then the screen bled into color and motion; a hand – Steve's hand -- stroking long and slow over a gleaming landscape of worn brown leather, the fingers curling and cupping gently along the folds, as though to soothe some timid animal. After a moment, Tony recognized the old brown jacket Steve seemed to love, its faded, proud wartime patches peeking out of the shadows. Steve's voice, when it came in, was close and warm, cut to the rear speakers, so Tony felt like he was perched between Steve's mouth, and those gorgeous, competent, restless hands. Damned nice touch, that one.

"When I was in Hollywood making those silly movies, I met this gal," Steve said. "She was tall and rangy, big hands and feet, but sweet as anything, and a hell of a flirt once she caught me looking. She called herself Lotta, but later she told me her parents had named her Udo." 

Tony smirked, imagining the newly minted Captain America getting a facefull of sexually aggressive transvestite back in the day, but before he could so much as picture Steve, cornered, awkward, and in full blush, the camera panned back a little more to show the man himself, sitting tailor style on his bed with the jacket spread across his lap... and not a goddamned _stitch_ of other clothing anywhere to be seen.

He was not, Tony noted with some chagrin, blushing. 

"She was a costumer for the studio when I met her, but before the war, she'd been a dancer in Berlin," Steve said, his face easy and fond as he picked up a tin of saddle soap and a wet brush, and started to work up a lather. "She'd seen the writing on the wall when the Nazis closed all the cabarets and brothels down, and had got while the getting was good. Said she ran to America because some of her favorite customers had been Americans, and she'd wanted to see where all the big spenders came from."

He huffed a laugh, gently spreading the gloss of foam across the leather with one hand, only to wipe it quickly away with a rag in the other, ease of long and loving habit in his movements. "Hell of an irony, I thought, her coming to America looking for wealth in 1934, but Lotta just smirked and patted my face when I said so. Said, 'California has been gracious to me, Steven, I don't complain.'" And no, Tony absolutely did _not_ shiver when Steve put on that low, throaty German accent, he just fucking did _not_!

Steve slid the jacket around to get at the dry side, somehow managing not to flash a single glimpse of his package as he did so. The shiver he gave as the damp leather skidded across his skin was just as hot though, twitching like a breeze across all that pale, pink acreage, rolling Steve's head back, stretching his throat out long, and bringing his nipples to hard little points just begging to be licked. Steve took a moment to catch his breath. Tony took it to get the cord of his sweatpants untied. 

"One day while we were shooting _America Triumphant_ ," Steve went on with a sly smile for the camera, "Lotta was doing some fitting work on the costume, and I noticed some stuff she had tucked away in a corner. Stuff like they wear now for blue movies and music videos; all leather and straps and nickel studs and rings and such." He turned the coat again and went for more lather, the soft brush and cloth whispering together under his words.

"I thought it was horse tack at first, all the straps and buckles. Couldn't figure out what it was doing in there with the showgirl outfits and bustle dresses. But when I went and took a closer look, it was clothes; pants, vests, girdles – corsets, I guess technically – all shining and so buttery soft when I touched them, so silky and heavy in my hands I almost expected them to sigh. And the smell..." Steve pulled one of the jacket's sleeves to his face and breathed, eyes hooded low, utterly unaware of how his pale, creamy thigh, and the steep curve of one hip slid into view beneath the hanging leather. Tony swallowed dryly, and took himself in hand.

"You have to understand, Tony," Steve said after a moment, letting the sleeve drape along his throat as he set his rag and brush aside and reached for another metal pot beside him on the bed. "The leather goods I saw growing up were all sturdy, heavy, and hard-wearing; boots and belts, doctor's cases, butcher's aprons. If they smelled like anything, it was street mud, iodine, blood or the sweat of their owners, and that sure didn't make you want to stand there petting them on the hanger."

He pried the lid away, and Tony snorted when he got a glimpse of the can's label; 'Huberd's Shoe Grease.' But then Steve stuck two fingers into the viscous, dun goop, and damned if the thick, filthy _squelch_ of it didn't go straight to Tony's dick. 

"Fuck," Tony sighed as his cock spurted precome across his thumb. "Cap, you're _killin'_ me here..." But of course, Steve didn't hurry. He just rolled his greasy, gleaming fingers into the palm of his other hand, and then smoothed them together till both his palms shone wet and slick. Then he began to stroke the grease along the long drape of leather, from the sleeve curling along his throat, all the way down to the standing ridge his erection made in the hanging tail, and Tony had never been so jealous of an article of clothing in his entire life.

"And with what the serum had done to my senses..." Steve went on, giving the camera another heated, furtive glance as his hands rubbed the grease in, "well, let's just say it made everything a little more... intense." Another shiver. This one just fucking _had_ to be deliberate. "I hadn't yet figured out how to tone my senses down and stay focused then, and things like the satin lining in a coat, or brushing my hand against a velvet curtain could cause some pretty embarrassing moments." 

He rubbed himself through the leather then, blue eyes fixed on the camera, pink lips quirked in a 'dare you' smile as his hands framed that gorgeous cock of his, plain as day behind its brown leather shroud. "Touching that leather, with the smell filling up my head like reefer smoke, I tell you Tony, I was halfway to getting off right in my pants and not sure I cared."

Tony cared. Tony cared very fucking much, thank you, and he didn't bother to stifle his heartfelt groan as Steve dug more grease out of the can and rolled his palms together again.

"Then I realized that Lotta was behind me. _Right_ behind me, so close that her breath tickled my ear when she said, real low and quiet, 'Those will not fit you, Schatzi. Much too small.'" He laughed, as if he could see how fast Tony's hand was moving over his prick, as if he knew how Tony's breath was dry, quick and shallow over the pool of sheer, aching _horniness_ gathering in his belly.

"Course I tried to jump out of my skin, but she steadied me, put the britches I'd been fondling back into my hand again." Steve's eyes locked onto the camera, hot as the goddamned sun, and his voice sank back down into that velvet black Berlin drawl. "And with your coloring, I think you should not wear the black. No, for you, we will make it special, hm?"

And then the video cut out. 

Two furious, cursing strokes later, Tony failed to care. He also failed to think, to breathe, to remember his own damned name, and in short, to do anything that was not directly involved in coming his damned brains out all over his half-cleared workbench. It was only later, as he was wiping himself down with a shop rag that Steve's final words bubbled back up to his forebrain again, accompanied by something very like a memory.

"Jarvis," Tony yelped, his feet slapping to the floor as he bolted upright in his chair. "Dad's collection: the Cap shrine. Jarvis, I need to see the catalogue right now!" The data screen to Tony's right lit up obligingly, and he scrolled frantically down through the pages until... "Hoh-lee shit."

"Sir?"

Tony selected the tiny image and flung it out large in holographic glory; a Steve-sized mannequin, dressed in a version of his old USO costume which at first glance looked fine, but upon closer examination was anything but proper. Even the colors were off – the blue too dark, too dusky, the red deepened toward burgundy, the white grimed just enough with grey to blend. And then the cut of the thing... Tony enlarged it again, noticing how the leggings were actually chaps underneath criminally tiny booty-shorts that laced together at the crotch with a generous allowance for package distribution.

Above the shorts, striped in burgundy and grey, was an honest to fucking God waist cincher that just skimmed the rise of the mannequin's nonexistent nipples. The cropped blue 'jacket' was a fantastical piece made up of thick, quilted, armor-like sections that faded abruptly and nonsensically from Gladiator-vibe into punched out lace patterns in the leather, exposing flashes of white at unexpected, but strategic points. The wrist, for instance; inside the elbow; along the ridge of a collarbone; at the curve of neck into shoulder; all places where someone might want to kiss, suckle, or bite. The cowl was just about the same as the one Steve wore back then, except for how the little wings trailed off in long, whippy white thongs that draped, obscenely suggestive, down either side of his head to tickle his throat.

"Jesus..." Tony said as his spent prick twitched again. "I always thought this was from a knock-off porno."

"According to my records of the visual media in that branch of the collection catalogue, there is no production involving an actor wearing any approximation of this costume," Jarvis provided. "Though it is possible that such a film was made, and suffered the inevitable degradation of silver nitrate immolation at some-"

"No," Tony decided, turning the figure again and examining the cut of the booty shorts more carefully. "Look at the build – in fact, transpose this mannequin over a mock up of Steve's body, proportions accurate...and... there, see?" He nodded at the perfect match, both hands busy tucking himself back into his pants. "That wasn't made for any actor but the original. Shame it's in such shitty condition though."

"The catalogue says it was bought in an estate lot in California in 1973. It appears to have been stored for some decades in an attic."

Tony winced, noticing how some of the cutwork was actually held together with wire, the blue painted onto the mannequin beneath to try and disguise the damage. "Yeah, no coming back from that kind of neglect." He turned the figure again, wondering what the leather had felt like when it had been new; wishing he could have seen Steve's blush turned the first time his friend put it on him and laced those shorts tight over his inevitable erection. That was one hell of an outfit right there; parts of Tony were still saluting.

"Jarvis," he decided with a clap of his hands. "What was the name of that fetish designer out in So Cal? The one with all the organically raised, hand tanned..." The website popped up on his largest monitor, and Tony grinned, evil and relishing it. 

"That's the guy. Find me his number and put in a call. We've got a project for him..."

~*~

Pepper's Bluetooth buzzed in her ear like a discreet choir of tiny angels, saving her from the polite purgatory of being hostage to Albert Coney's appetite for paella, sangria, and stories of his own conquests. There were perhaps a dozen people who had her personal number, and only one of those would be using it for frivolous reasons, but she figured even Tony was a good enough excuse to check out of the luncheon from hell.

"Potts here," she said, half turning from the table and setting her serviette beside her plate.

"What do I need to know about the Avengers Exception?" Natasha asked without preamble.

Pepper blinked, then shoved her most charming smile into place for long enough to excuse herself from the table. "Why hello, Ms. Rushman," she said, archly sweet as she made for the ladies lavatory. "My, but it's been awhile, hasn't it? How _have_ you been keeping?"

Natasha gave a chuckle. "My manicure could use a touch up, I had to give my masseuse a raise, and my laundress has quit in tears. Apparently, ectoplasm is hell to get out of delicates. Oh, and I need to find out whether my ridiculous teammates are about to blow up the best tactical unit I've ever seen because they can't seem to keep their pants on. You?"

Pepper had to laugh for real then. "I'm sure it can't be that bad already," she said, "It's only been a week."

"You _have_ met Anthony Stark, haven't you?"

"Once or twice," Pepper grinned, leaning against the sink. "But it's nothing to worry about. From what Steve told me when he started this, I'm pretty sure they're just having a fairly typical dick measuring contest, not a whirlwind romance-slash-nuclear-annhilation."

"Mm hmm. Hold on, I'm sending you some videos..." The audible smirk in the agent's voice was warning enough for Pepper to go and throw the bolt on the bathroom door before she played the first one. Several minutes later, after the last one cut off -- as they all had done -- frustratingly short of the happy ending, she was very glad she had.

"Well..." Pepper said once she was sure she could speak without panting. "That escalated quickly."

"That it did," Natasha agreed, wryly amused. "So you understand my concern. Now; Avengers Exception?" 

"Hmm... Nope. Still not seeing how it's actually your business," she answered, mostly to see what the agent would do -- and ok, it was remotely possible that some of Tony's bad habits could be rubbing off on her a little.

"Aside from how I actually _am_ an Avenger, and therefore included in this unknown Exception, you mean?" 

"Aside from that, yes."

Natasha snorted a laugh. "It's not my business. But that sort of nicety hasn't bothered me for decades. Now I'm assuming it's some sort of monogamy pass?"

"Basically, yes," Pepper gave up the game with due grace and turned to examine herself in the mirror, cursing her fair hair and the pink complexion that hung onto a blush like the Hatfields held onto a grudge. "It's my not wanting to waste energy wondering what could possibly arise out of five stunningly hot people essentially rooming with my boyfriend, whose poor impulse control is a matter of public record, if not actual legend."

"Definitely legend," Natasha said. "Spoken of in awed whispers wherever drinking geeks gather."

"Exactly." Pepper ran the cold tap and patted a bit of water on her neck and throat. It wouldn't do to return to the luncheon meeting looking like she'd just snuck away for a wi-fi quickie, after all. "I knew exactly what I was getting into with Tony, and I didn't go into this relationship expecting to change who he was or is. I always figured it was a matter of 'when', not 'if', especially since I travel so much for work." She dug her lipstick out of her purse, quickly touching up there too. "Once I saw how he was about all of you, I figured we'd better sit down and get that bit of negotiation right out of the way."

"You're not jealous then?" Natasha sounded odd -- curious, but detached, like she was asking for details on an obscure artist, or an interesting sort of fish. Pepper knew just enough about her, though, to realize that only meant she was more invested in the answer than she wanted anyone to know. And strangely, that was something of a relief.

"I honestly don't have time to be jealous about Tony," she answered, finishing her touch up and smoothing her suit. "Not where the team is concerned. You look after Tony when he's risking his life in that damn suit, I figure you're not going to stop once he's out of it. So long as he tells me when it happens, and he keeps it out of the news, the Exemption stands." She chuckled then, and went to unlock the door. "Besides, if Tony's going to sleep around on me, I'd sure rather he do it with Captain America than with the Olympic Soccer team again."

"Again?"

"Athens, 2004."

"Men's, or women's?"

"...'Or,' you say?"

"That.. should really have been in his file," Natasha muttered after a moment of silence.

"Money talks," Pepper answered, smug and proud. "It can also buy a lot of forgetfulness."

"So hypothetically," Natasha's voice went canny and sly, "if I were to seduce Stark one morning, ride him like I'd stolen him and then put him away wet, you'd be all right with that under the Avengers Exemption?"

Pepper had grown up with brothers. She knew what a challenge sounded like, and just how to egg one on. "Hypothetically, I'd be impressed as hell, given that he still talks about how you can't be trusted around his neck with a hypospray. But if you were to provide photographic evidence, I suppose I'd have to believe you."

Natasha laughed then, short and sharp, like it had been startled out of her. "Pics or it didn't happen. That's actually a new one in my line of work"

"Not in mine," Pepper smirked.

"And is it fair," Natasha let her voice curl low, like a threat, or a filthy sort of promise, "to assume the Avengers Exemption is... bilateral?"

Ten years and Tony Stark ago, Pepper would have blushed and run at that, maybe stammered something awkward for which she'd have kicked herself later. Now she just let her grin out full and said. "Everything's negotiable. Lovely talking with you, Natalie. I'll call you when I get back into town. We can do lunch or something."

"Or something," Natasha answered in a purr as she rang off.

~*~

Tony was a genius, of course, and he liked to remind folks of that whenever possible (as if anyone could forget.) So it was no surprise to Steve that his video style was all slick special effects, flattering light angles, and clever cinematography. The man had figured out the arc reactor in a cave while under torture and recovering from open heart surgery, after all, even with no art or cinema experience, film science would hardly be difficult to a mind like that.

The latest video was still every inch Tony Stark though, and that meant anything but subtle. The music was loud, rude and raucous, the colors bright, the angles dynamic and the action fast. It reminded Steve of nothing so much as one of those car commercials that come on during sports games, except that instead of some too-skinny girl in her underwear posing with the vehicle, it was Tony Stark in torn and dirty jeans. _Tight_ torn and dirty jeans, actually, and nothing else. And from the way he was standing, he was very well aware of what those jeans did for his backside.

"You wanna know what the kinkiest part of the suit is, really?" he asked once the music faded down a little bit. He looked over his shoulder like a pin up girl, but his grin was anything but coy or sweet. Downright filthy would be a closer call. 

"It's not what you'd think, I don't have a hidden fleshlight attachment in there or anything. Although sure, I totally _could_ do something like that, but come on; armored battlesuit does not equal sexual romper room, even for me." Steve had to chuckle at the bright, hectic glitter in Tony's eyes, knowing that the scandalous notions that flickered through his mind were Steve's own doing, but seeded in fertile ground by the imp on the screen. 

"So yeah, work and play not mixing there, because what could _possibly_ go wrong, but still I gotta tell you that these bastards," Tony held up one of his repulsor boots in his palm beside him, the weight of it making the muscles of his arms bunch in the light, "sometimes do blur the line." He turned, settled his hip against the worktable, and shifted the boot to both hands, so the light played along the gold and red like fire, and drew Steve's eyes inexorably to the region of Tony's crotch, and damn, but those jeans were _really_ snug. 

"You ride a bike, right?" he asked, rolling his hips against the heel of the boot as if he couldn't help himself, "So you know what it feels like, having a powerful machine between your thighs; all that velocity, all that thrust," (Jesus, Mary and Joseph, how filthy he made that word sound,) "cradled right _there_..." Tony rutted again, then closed his eyes and gasped out a showy shiver that peaked his dusky nipples and made the light dance across the gleaming boot. Steve wanted nothing more than to pry Tony's lip out from between his teeth and chew on it himself.

"Every time I hit the juice, the vibrations run right home to Daddy, knowwhaddImean?" Tony gripped the boot closer, obviously grinding himself against it now. "I can usually ignore it if there's a battle going on – keep my head in the fight and all, but I gotta tell you, Cap, I'm sporting a semi every time I put this bad boy on." He gave his hips a little circling grind, making the trapped flesh bulge and roll around the unyielding alloy. Steve could swear he heard the damned zipper straining against itself.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Tony suddenly stopped still, dropped his chin and peered through his lashes at the camera, though the shooting angle still put his crotch and that damned boot dead square in the focus of the frame. 

"Just between you and me, I might have, once or twice, flown around the city on a good day, firing the thrusters in tiny-" his hips rolled again, "little-" and again, "bursts-" and kept on rolling, greedy, and utterly without shame, "and if I time it just right, rock back into each one..." The camera angled up fully now, cut the gleaming boot, the grimy hands, and the grinding crotch out of frame, and zoomed in on Tony's shit-eating grin. "Well let's just say it's a good thing the undersuit I wear inside this thing is washable, and leave it at that, huh?" 

Then the video cut out, of course, leaving Steve red-faced, hard in his pants, and grinning at his tablet like a fool. His plan to get Tony over his mortified missishness counted a definite success – the man was bold as a badger now, with not a lick of shame to be seen in person or in these silly, boastful little dares they were pestering each other with now. Tony was back to baseline – brash and flashy and not even a little bit sorry, and honestly, Steve was glad to see it. Though it was going to make it darned tough for Steve to do that video one better without crossing the line between bragging and unwelcome exposure.

And this latest development was definitely going to make it tough for Steve to watch Iron Man flying around in battle without getting at least a little distracted by the thought that he might be rubbing himself off inside the armor on his way home after.

~*~

"Sir, you requested to be notified when Captain Rogers had opened and viewed your latest video message," Jarvis said.

Tony cut his torch and flipped up his welding mask at once. "Well?" he demanded as War Machine's cooling gun mounts ticked and smoked. "What did he think? Did he freak out?"

"The Captain did not tender his opinion with me," Jarvis replied, with a distinct air of nose-elevation in his tone, "And while to judge by his biometric readings he did have a reaction to the video's contents, I cannot in good faith classify it as 'freaking out'."

That was when Rhodey's boots hit the workshop floor like the crack of doom. "What video are we talking about here?" he demanded, coming around the deflection glass to loom over Tony's shoulder. "You trolling Captain America now, Tones?"

"He started it!" Tony replied. "He totally did," he carried on at Rhodey's skeptical look, "I am not even lying right now! Jarvis! Tell Muffin here that I am innocent of this particular instigation!"

"Technically, Captain Rogers' video was the first in the chain," Jarvis admitted like it hurt.

"In the chain..." Rhodey said.

"It's more like a dialogue," Tony offered.

"A dialogue in which you can legitimately expect your team leader to 'freak out'."

"That's not a good way to put it, really."

"The Colonel's observation is somewhat accurate however, as the primary objective to date does seem to be one of shock and awe. Given the lack of direct follow-through on the part of either partici-"

"And that's enough commentary from you, Jarvis," Tony cut in as Rhodey's face took on that look he'd learned long ago to know, love, hate, fear, and recognize through any amount of mind-altering substance as an 'impending intervention.' "Look, Muffin, I promise you'll always be my favorite, all right? It's just that the good Captain has taken it upon himself to demonstrate that he's got something that passes for a sense of humor lately, is all."

"A sense of humor that involves shocking videos."

"Exactly!"

"They're naked videos, aren't they? You're sending Captain America videos of your junk."

"What? No! No junk yet," Tony insisted, setting the torch down and stripping the mask away. "Almost junk, maybe a little but no actual junk – that's kind of a rule. Kinda like junk-chicken, right? The goal is to get close, you know – get the other guy to flinch first but not, you know, crash and burn."

Rhodey stared for a moment, then shook his head and set a careful hand on Tony's shoulder. "What are you doing, really?" he asked. "Playing head games with a guy like him – a guy you used to have on your wall as a kid? A guy who practically autographed like half your emotional baggage, and who probably has a hell of a lot of Stark-made baggage himself? Do you even know what you're after here, Tony?" 

"I'm not after anything." It was nearly the absolute truth, and as before, Tony wasn't surprised to see that his friend didn't buy it. "I'm not! There's no hidden agenda here – I'm not trying to make him do anything, except possibly continue to loosen the hell up and enjoy himself some. Which, by the way, he seems to be actually _doing_ since we started playing this game."

"Seriously," Rhodey folded his arms over his chest. "That's absolutely _all_ you want out of this; Captain America 'enjoying himself'..."

"That's it," Tony lied. But before he could be unsurprised by Rhodey believing him, Jarvis spoke up again.

"Message from Captain Rogers, Sir," he said, and played it without waiting to be told.

" _Okay first, who in the world told you that was a sexy way to eat fruit?_" Steve's voice, rich with laughter, flowed through the speakers, and goddamn if it didn't chase away the half-panicked 'getting busted' feeling that had coiled up tight in Tony's chest. Steve liked it. Steve wasn't pissed. " _And second, I really hope those spoons didn't come from the group kitchen, because I may not ever be able to eat off that cutlery again. In fact, I think I'm just gonna start bringing my own flatware with me to the team dinners, just in case. Rogers out._ " 

Then the call cut, and Tony turned his best 'See?' stare on his friend. 

Rhodey just shook his head, and spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, clearly this has gone way beyond the realm of good sense," he said. "I take it Pepper doesn't mind?"

"I have a note," Tony breezed, turning back to his welding torch, and hiding his goofy grin behind the mask. "Hey, you want sonic stunners on this thing? I think there's still room in the armpits..."


	3. You're dethpicable!

_So come on, big daddy, don't make me feel bad_   
_Are you listening? I'm ringin' your bell._   
_A tabernacle choir in a four alarm fire_   
_I know you want it; it's easy to tell._

 

Admittedly it was just a training drill. Nobody was more aware of that than Maria Hill. There were no high stakes, no hostages, no ticking time bomb, and the scenario was far from deadly, but damn it, at least worthy of paying some attention! The armory had come up with about a hundred high-speed, highly maneuverable shock-drones that ran on independent processors but in flocking algorythms, HR had rounded up a small army of Agents, armed them with paint ball guns, backed them up with not less than ten remote-operated gunnery stations, and set the lot of them loose on the Avengers in a closed and well booby-trapped course. Celebrity heroes or not, you'd really think they could at least _try_ to approach it with a shred of professionalism. 

But no, OH no. Instead of efficiently clearing the occupied buildings in a methodical fashion, the Avengers were _toying_ with their opponents. Barton had caught one of the damned drones within thirty seconds of deployment, and ten minutes later Stark had not only rewired the thing to randomly attack SHIELD personnel, but set it to fetch others of its kind back to Stark, Banner, Barton, and Romanov, all of whom were now able to brainwash the damned things. The programmers were locked out (originally planned as a defense against Stark's shenanigans, but now a Serious Discussion that Assistant Director Hill would soon be having with the software department.) By Hill's count roughly half of the drones had gone rogue, and were relentlessly breaking up any Agent groupings of three or more.

Oh, and look at that. Now the rogue drones had paintballs too. Wonderful.

Rogers, once he'd gotten bored of trying to rein his team in to seriousness – and Hill could tell he'd only halfheartedly tried -- had climbed a building from the outside, and stolen one of the .50 cal paint cannons out of a gunnery nest. Impressive enough, from a tactical standpoint. 

Only instead of using it to thin out the ranks of the target rich environment, Rogers was primarily aiming the damned thing at walls, and _painting_ with it. Meanwhile Thor, who'd noticed that the assault teams were armed with different colors of paint, kept running blitz raids on the ammo depos to improve the Captain's damned palette. 

And even with all that distraction, Rogers was _still_ managing to snipe anybody who put their head out of cover to take a shot at him while he created his damned masterpiece.

Best of all – for values of 'best' defined as 'things that make Maria want to strangle superheroes' -- the Avengers, even the seasoned agents who damned well should have KNOWN better, were playing Truth or Dare over the open comms while they made a farce out of Maria's carefully planned training exercise. 

Barton started it, as usual, but Maria had been one of the first casualties of the exercise – Stark himself had found her squad and snatched her struggling off the field to the 'kill shed' about three minutes after the whistle. With her comm in receive-only mode, and every other squad leader currently in exile along with her, there was fuck-all Maria could do to make what Agents were still left 'alive' down on the course take any advantage of the Avengers' distraction.

"Lure Stark into the tower," she ground as she watched through the field glasses. "Come on, lure him in then set it off! How hard can that be?" But apparently the distraction of the comm chatter was working as much against the attacking agents as anything.

"Here's your purple, Cap," Romanov said as she slid down a fire escape Maria had been _certain_ was rigged to collapse from its moorings. "And it's your turn, by the way. Truth or Dare?"

"He'll choose truth," Stark said, leading a parade of his paint-armed drones across the open square to strafe a pile of rubble that was sheltering two scared interns. "He always chooses truth, justice, and the American Way."

"It's in the job description," Rogers grinned, then slung his shield at a drone bot and caught the rebound without looking away from his drippy, gloopy masterpiece. "Hey, anybody found black yet?" 

"I don't think they make paintballs in black, Steve," Banner replied, and – Maria peered – was he _smoking_ up on that damned rooftop? "But I have a question. Tell the truth: have you ever dressed in drag?"

"Dunno. What's a drag look like?"

"Damn it, where the hell is Delta team?" Maria snarled at nobody in particular as the Avengers laughed at their leader. "The southern approach is wide _open!_ "

Behind her, barely rumpled and entirely too calm, Sitwell shrugged and popped open a soda. "Barton got em already, I think. Last I heard, Sigma was the only team intact, and I'm pretty sure Thor's got em pinned down in the bodega. Outside of them, it's down to the stragglers." Maria scowled at him and he shrugged. "Well, them and Maintenance. SHIELD HQ is ever overrun by hostiles, those guys from Maintenance will outlast us all. You just mark my words." 

She turned back to her field glasses in disgust. Intel was intel, but he didn't have to go and sound so _cheerful_ about it.

Down in the course, Steve Rogers had put the paint cannon aside and was considering his wall art, seemingly unaware of the two accounting interns coming up behind him across the roof of the building Widow had just vacated. 

"Well sure, I've dressed up in women's clothing before," he said, not even a tiny bit worried about saying so where anybody with a band-scanner could hear, and _damn it_ , how the hell had PR not _had_ that conversation with the man already? "Camp Lehigh talent show, back in '41. My squad did a burlesque routine." He glanced to his right, nowhere near the interns, and hefted his shield. Maria held her breath. "I thought everybody knew 'bout that." 

"I didn't know about that," Stark griped, diving through a last, straggling flock of uncompromised drones and scattering them hopelessly. "How did I not know about that?"

"Come on," Maria hissed, watching intern 1 fiddle with her aim, then with her ammo hopper, then with her scope sight while intern 2 tried to climb silently down to the fire escape for a better shot. "Take it. Quit fussing and take. The. Shot."

"No idea," Rogers answered, slinging his shield hard off a lightpost and then a shop window (How? Glass, dammit! How?) The shield buzzed the head of Intern 1 so close that she yelped and dropped her gun square onto Intern 2, who fell onto the fire escape which... well look at that; apparently it had been loosened after all. Damn it.

"Thor, on your six," Rogers warned as the shield returned to him like a law of nature. The fire escape slowly peeled itself from the wall, Intern 2 clinging and squalling all the way down while on the rooftop, Intern 1 was surrendering to the Prince of Asgard as quickly as she possibly could. "Natasha, secure the captive on the ground," he said, turning back to his wall again. "And see if either of them has black paint, would ya? Clint-"

"I got the one in the shop Cap," the sniper came back, and a second later the shield-proof window shattered to dust around a broad tip arrow, revealing one of the Maintenance agents. The hopper of his gun was now bleeding electric green around an arrow shaft, and while Maria watched, the man gamely dropped his weapon onto the counter and started heading for the kill-shed. 

"Also," Barton went on, "Burlesque? Seriously? Cause I'm pretty sure Phil never mentioned the Howling Commandos in sequins and fishnets before. I totally woulda remembered something like that."

"Yeah, Cap!" Stark roared by again, not a paint fleck nor a scorchmark on him, dammit. "Pics, or it didn't happen!"

Maria clenched her teeth hard around the urge to scream – her comm wasn't in broadcast mode, but bellowing 'WILL SOMEONE JUST SHOOT CAPTAIN AMERICA PLEASE?' in an operations shed full of SHIELD officers didn't seem like it'd be easy to scrub off her career record.

"Well, it happened, and there were pics," said the focus of her ire with a camera-ready grin that belied the hour and a half his damned team had been _utterly screwing up_ the training exercise. "But I'm pretty sure Howard bought them all and burned them after the show. He said the garter belt and girdle made his butt look huge." 

That was when Iron Man flew into a wall, and collapsed a tenement on himself. In retrospect, it was Maria's favorite part of the whole day.

~*~

There really was no good reason for what Tony did next; it was petty, it was provocative, and yeah, it was totally designed to get Rogers right square into trouble. Even in the moment, Tony knew it was not even going to be worth the eventual fallout, but after that drag crack (in combat, no less – 'perfect soldier', his shiny metal ass!) Captain Girlpants totally had it coming. It was also an amusing distraction from the ball-busting that Agent Hill was attempting to dish out, and let's be honest here, when had Tony Stark ever been good at impulse control?

If Tony hadn't been watching for the micro-flinch he'd have missed the moment when Steve's phone vibrated against his hip. His brows lowered as he figured out what he was feeling, and spotted the Starkphone in Tony's hand but he didn't reach for it, because of course, Captain America would never dream of allowing himself to be distracted from an official telling-off by a sore loser up the chain of command, would he? Oh no, of course not. He just squirmed a little, then settled back down again, all choirboy-innocent and determined to ignore Tony's legitimate attempts to communicate.

Or try to, anyway. Tony had years of practice in not being ignored, and Tony knew mod-codes for the phone in Steve's pocket that could all but make it dance. Programming it to buzz Tony's message out in Morse code was a piece of cake. Also more than a little bit entertaining, given the delicious flush that spread up Cap's face when he realized his ass was talking to him.

He shot an 'I am killing you with my mind right now' look Tony's way, but got the phone out before Tony had to follow through on his threat. Which was good, because if Cap's phone _had_ suddenly started playing Carmen Miranda songs at top volume, nobody in the room would have been in any doubt that Tony was responsible. Plausible deniability was apparently a thing that only happened to other people.

* _What is it?_ * Steve's message came back.

Tony kept a bored glare on Hill's diagrams and typed out his reply. * _So how do you feel about shaving?_ *

* _Really, Tony? Now?_ *

Pshyeah, like pulling it during a training simulation was any _more_ professional. And anyway, Tony could see a new glint of fond annoyance through the locked-up stare Steve'd been wearing for the last fourty minutes. That was all the invitation he figured he needed. * _What, you afraid you'll miss yet another explanation of how you won wrong? Just answer the question; shaving. Y/N?_ * 

It looked like Steve actually pulled something resisting the urge to roll his eyes. * _Y, obviously,_ * he typed back, leaning closer to the table as Barton noticed and tried to get a look at his screen. _I shave every morning. Growing a beard itches._ *

Tony pointedly scratched his chin then, gave a happy sigh at the sensation, and beamed at Hill's answering glare. Then, when she turned back to her charts, and Steve's smile was leaking out of cover again, Tony entered his reply. * _Only to the weak. But I was talking about Shaving shaving._*

God, that little confused wrinkle between his eyebrows was gorgeous. * _You mean legs? Like ladies do?_ * 

* _I mean like naked privates time, Cap._ * Tony shot back, snickering under his breath. * _Smooth and silky everywhere. You'd be amazed how it feels after a good shave. Vulnerable, sensitive but you're still hard as a rock._ *

"What are you doing, Tony?" Bruce murmured beside him, just a faint stain of disapproval soaking through the lingering effects of his earlier smoke.

"Discussing tactics with my venerable leader," he smirked back, watching Steve struggle with his blush, and the weight of Natasha's amused, knowing glances and Thor's openly amused curiosity. At this point, the only one who seemed not to realize what was going on at the table was Hill, and yeah, that was totally only a matter of time.

* _Vulnerable's one way of putting it,_ * Steve's answer came back eventually, accompanied by a skeptical side-glare. * _Running a razor over your privates seems like a dangerous idea to me._ *

More dangerous than Project Rebirth? Tony wanted to cackle out loud, but he manfully restrained himself to a wolfish grin instead. * _Maybe a little, but trust me, it's totally worth it. And anyway, it's less dangerous and a lot more fun if you get someone else to do it._ * 

And there went that eyebrow – the one that climbed halfway up his forehead and perched there in patent disbelief while Steve's mouth dropped open on a word he only just managed not to say aloud. Then he glared around the table, noted his team's unrestrained interest, and relegated his disbelief to his thumbs. * _You're monkeyshining,_ * he sent. * _You won't let someone hand you so much as a plate! No way you let someone go at your balls with a razor._ *

Tony let his grin spread out across his face to full-on Grinch-having-a-wonderful-terrible-thought proportions, and turned his chair sideways, presenting Steve with an unobstructed view of his lap; knees splayed, one hand cradling his phone, the other pinching the zipper of his tight-pressed fly. 

"Stark, are we boring you?" Hill ground out, twigging on at last.

He tossed her a paparazzi grin. "Little bit, yeah, but don't take it personally – I've just been issued a challenge of honor, and must drop my pants." Steve choked on something then – air, probably. Thor slammed him companionably on the back while Barton hooted with laughter, Bruce snickered, and Natasha rolled her eyes at them all. 

"You are not taking your pants off," Hill managed to make it sound like a threat, but Tony spotted the flash of intrigued alarm in her dark eyes, and knew it for an advantage. He shrugged as he stood to undo the top button of his jeans.

"Looks like I am, actually. You might wanna leave the room; things are about to get kinda naked in here."

"You whip that thing out, Stark, and I will order Agent Romanov to step on it." Fury swept into the room in a flutter of leather, attitude, and the best timing short of a Hollywood production team. "And believe me, despite her sensitivity training, she _will_ do it." 

Natasha backed the threat up with a smile and a half shrug that promised she might not particularly enjoy stomping Tony's jewels, but wouldn't be morally opposed to the order or anything. Beside her, Barton wore an expression that all but promised he would be the one going for popcorn and making book on recovery time. Tony gave them both the stinkeye, for what little it was worth. 

Cap, still coughing, stood up, apology all over his face, but Fury was having none of it. "Now all you Avengers get the fuck home," he said, pointing at the still-open door. "And I'll thank you to keep your goddamned honor in your pants till you're off my goddamned base," the director added, turning to pin Cap with a glare that went just a little heavier than the rest. "And that goes for ALL of you."

Tony put on his best angelic grin, and tipped the man a salute as he sauntered past, reasonably sure that if Fury was actually capable of lighting him on fire with that eye alone, it would probably have happened a long time ago.

~*~

"Cap?"

Steve looked up and took the pencil out of his mouth. "Yeah, Sam?"

"What the hell is this?" He held up Steve's laptop and pointed at the screen, where in the midst of orderly ranks of folders, a tiny, animated Iron Man was doing an obscene kind of dance routine. 

"Stark's idea of the Hootchie Cootch, I think," Steve managed nonchalant pretty well, he thought, though you couldn't tell it by Sam's dubious face. "I'd switch it back to the folder icon like the rest, but he'd only hack in and change it to something worse."

Sam laughed at that, and shook his head. "Being the reason you come to me for help with your wireless card and firewall instead of him, yeah." Then he blinked at the screen again, his eyebrows climbing. "Dueling Pornos?"

Ah. He must have moused over the dancing icon. Steve grimaced. "Well, Tony sometimes-"

"AUGH! MY EYES!" Steve lunged to catch the laptop before it slid to the floor, while Sam, from behind the safety of his palms, groaned. "What was that? What the hell even _was_ that?"

"Peanut butter, I think," Steve coughed, exiting the video and backing out of the folder. "I hope it's peanut butter, anyhow." One horrified eye appeared between two of Sam's fingers, and Steve tried on a reassuring grin. "I'm sure it's just peanut butter. Tony was trying to explain food porn to me this one time, and-"

"Nope!" Sam shot to his feet, palms out like he was bracing to stop a runaway train. "Nope, nope, no fucking WAY do I want to know anything about why Tony Stark, food porn, and Steve Rogers belong anywhere in the same damned sentence!" 

Steve sat back on his heels and watched the man get control of his breath for a moment. "Okay."

"Okay."

"That's fine."

"Good."

"The install all done then?"

"Yup. Done deal. Beer?" His voice held just the finest, trembling edge to it, and it was the work of some willpower for Steve not to grin at it as he tucked the computer under his arm and stood.

"Sure. I'm out here though, so let's go down to-" 

"MAIL CALL!" The laptop bellowed in the canned voice of a Drill Instructor – another of Tony's personalizations which Steve found just amusing enough to leave in place . Sam flinched back a step, and really, Steve couldn't resist. 

He unfolded the case again, glanced at the screen and beamed his best poster boy grin. "Oh good! I was hoping he was gonna explain what the whole 'Furries' thing was all about..."

~*~

Tony had almost, _almost_ dozed off, worn though the post-adrenaline shakes and body aches, gotten over the belly twist that didn't know whether it was nausea or hunger, and settled down toward a nap that bid fair to last the length of New England when it happened.

The seat behind him creaked, a solid hand pulled his own seat ever so slightly back, and there came a slight, whispery huff of air close enough to cool the sweaty curl of Tony's ear. His eyes clapped open, and if he hadn't been belted into the damned seat, Tony would have lurched halfway across the damned Quinjet. When he craned aside, it was Steve's face hovering beside his headrest, chin resting on his dusty glove, eyes hooded and intense as he drew yet another long breath in through the nose.

"Did..." Tony swallowed and tried it again, in a lower key and volume. "Did you just _sniff_ me?"

"Mmhm," Steve murmured back, one side of his mouth ticking upward. "You're sweaty. Could smell it two rows back."

"Well excuse the fuck outta me," Tony shot back. "I just fought mutated cattle mollusks for fifteen hours in a tin can, and you don't exactly smell daisy-fresh either, so-" 

"I know." Steve's smile got wider, and subtly dirtier as he failed to flinch back from Tony's snark. "Didn't say you smelled bad..." and there he let his eyes drift closed and sniffed again, long and slow and deep. His eyes were a thin rind of heaven surrounding endless black, and oh fuck, suddenly Tony was aware of the strong, sweaty, musky smell of _him_ as well, settling like a coil of heat around Tony's balls.

"Didn't say I didn't like it either;" Steve went on, slipping out of his seat and making no effort whatsoever to conceal the fact that his star spangled athletic supporter was under some serious internal pressure. "Honest day's work smells good on you." He patted Tony's shoulder twice, then made his way back to the Quinjet's bathroom, and Tony was absolutely certain that ass twitched and rolled a fuck of a lot more than it strictly needed to on the way.

He dropped his head back to the headrest and swore at the ceiling, then flinched as across the row of seats from him, Natasha chuckled.

"Anybody else craving popcorn?" she asked.

"Or a scorecard?" Barton came back. 

Bruce put up his hand. "I vote for both. Can we have both?"

"You're all horrible people," Tony told them, closing his eyes and fiercely resisting the urge to try and adjust his armor's groin plates. "Except for Thor. He's my favorite."

"Excellent," Thor replied with a laugh that was way too goddamned cheery for someone covered in scorched cow-ink. "Then you must explain to me how this duel you fight with the Captain is scored, for there are those watching from Asgard who wish to know how to lay odds upon the outcome..."

~*~

"A lot of his reputation is fiction, you know," Bruce said without preamble. Steve startled around, halfway out of the sofa, and Bruce was briefly impressed with himself – Even Natasha had trouble sneaking up on Steve in the common rooms, especially late at night. He rounded the end of the sofa and took a seat as Steve paused the baseball game on the tv.

"Tony, you mean." He didn't bother to make it a question, and Bruce's nod was more gratitude for that than validation of it. 

"He likes to play it up for shock value, but he's not as..." Bruce chewed his lip for a moment, then cut a glance at Steve, hoping he'd supply a genteel way of saying it. All he got for his pains was Steve's neutral 'polite-but-faintly-baffled' mask. "Sybaritic as the papers make him sound."

Steve's mask cracked at the corner of his mouth in a smile that was thick with irony. "Based on direct evidence, Doctor Banner, what the papers say about him doesn't come close to it," he answered, settling again. "You gonna warn me off? Tell me to leave him alone?"

Bruce blinked, startled to realize where the conversation had gone, and how quickly it had gotten there. Steve was terribly still beside him, eyes fixed on the frozen screen, breath measured and light, not a muscle tic betraying the force that thrummed underneath that perfect skin. "No. Your reputation's pretty clear on how well _that_ works," he let a laugh color his voice. "I just wanted to be sure you knew that he's... fragile?" Not the right word. Bruce shook his head. "He talks a good fight, and he trades on his checkered past, but really he's-"

"He's a fella who's got a standing arrangement with his gal about it being okay for him to step out on her, so long as it's with one of his team?"

"Well yeah, but he's also-"

"Nearly twice my age?" Steve cut in with a smirk, rolling onward before Bruce could answer, "An internationally recognized playboy? A genius who thinks in six directions at once? A fella who's starred in more internet sex tapes than I did in propaganda pictures during the whole war?"

Bruce blinked, thrown. "He has?"

"Seven," Steve was grinning now. "He's got me by two. He's also sent me perverted manuals and tutorials on everything from livestock abuse to astronauts abusing themselves in zero-G."

"He... wow, there's footage of that?"

Steve gave a nod and a small grimace. "Apparently Johnny Storm's something of an exhibitionist, and willing to take a camera into orbit on a dare."

Bruce laughed and shook his head. "Now that, I can believe. But I didn't come to warn you off Tony, I promise, I just wanted to be sure you knew..." Bruce vaguely waved his hand in the air between Steve, and the elevator doors. "What you're getting into. Really."

The skeptical look Steve gave him then would have been better suited coming over the top of a pair of sunglasses. "You do realize that most of _my_ reputation is fiction too, right?" he asked.

"Right, I know; your image was pretty carefully crafted for the propaganda machine, but you were in the army after all."

"And there was a reason they issued all us flatfoots eight rubbers a week," Steve graciously let them both out of a recounting of details. "I know my way around."

"Knowing your way around is one thing, but knowing your way around Tony Stark," Bruce fiddled with his shirt cuff, examining the game on the screen; the pitcher unspooled at full extent, the batter coiled tight, maple club just blurring into motion, and the ball hanging like a star between them. So much control, so much skill, so much passion on both sides, and so very, very much potential for chaos... "He can be tricky to understand, especially if you're close, you know?"

"I _don't_ know," Steve admitted then. "But I'm learning, I think. I know we're getting along better now, playing this silly game, than we ever did before. I know we're not fighting over every little thing anymore. I know even with the distractions, he listens to me in the field when it matters now, and he gives me enough warning, when he does nutso things, that I can work around his chaos." He picked up a beer from the side table and drained it in one long pull. "I also know he's sleeping more, and he's coming out to eat more, and he's spending time with others on the team."

Bruce frowned, watching the shadows play over the planes of Steve's face as the words slipped around some bigger, denser gravity mass. "So that's why you're carrying this on? Socializing the wild Stark?" 

Called out, Steve had the grace to look abashed, even as he shrugged. "That's all it has to be," he said, then when Bruce failed to mask his incredulity at that, he shrugged again, reached for a beer, and handed one across to Bruce as well. 

"Tony's got rich tastes, anybody can see that. He likes things a certain way, and a certain quality, and he's never settled for less in his life." Steve waved his bottle around, taking in the media room and its latest, newest, bleeding-edge everything. "He likes fast, he likes bright, he likes loud, he likes confusing, and most of all, he likes _next_. A futurist through and through, right?" And there, Steve took in his own frame with a sweeping gesture; neat and tucked, in chinos and a pressed cotton button-down, baseball game on the set, and a scoring sheet on his knee. "Other than my looks – and he knows just which bottle those came out of, -- I know I'm not his type at all."

"You actually believe that," Bruce goggled.

"What, that I don't hold a patch on Miss Potts?" Steve chuckled and shook his head. "'Course I don't. Who does? That I'm old fashioned and kind of a wet blanket sometimes? Sure – that's hard to miss. But as for the rest, Bruce, you really don't have to worry. I can deal with whatever Tony tosses at me and not go expecting anything more. I have no illusions about where any of this is going," he said, and it took more willpower than Bruce was expecting to stop himself from contradicting the statement at once, because it was clear Steven Grant Rogers had no damn _idea_.

Instead, he resigned himself to twisting off the cap of his beer and shaking his head. "Maybe Tony's the one I need to be warning off," he muttered.

Steve snorted and picked up the remote, but before he could start the game again, Jarvis spoke up. "I wonder if you would allow me to monitor that meeting when you do, Doctor Banner," he said. "It's just that I myself have never experienced any success with such warnings off, when Sir is in the grip of one of his obsessions, and in the event that you are successful, I should very much like to know how you've gone about it."

"Obsessions?" Steve said, remote still hovering.

Jarvis just started the game again, and in the smart crack of leather on hardwood, and the throaty roar of the distant crowd, the question sank unanswered.


	4. An Earth-Shattering Kaboom

_So step right on up, have no fear_   
_I'll whisper sweet nothings into your ear_   
_Your nightly addiction; your forbidden sin,_   
_I'm your nickelodeon._

 

"If you take that phone out of your pocket one more time," Pepper leaned close to murmur in Tony's ear as they danced, "I'll throw it in the punch."

"What phone?" Tony blurted, wide-eyed innocent, as if she didn't have better than ten years' experience in his bullshit. "Why would I take out my phone when I'm dancing with the most beautiful woman here?"

"Well I'm sure I don't know, but it might be for the same reason you had it out while the Chairwoman was thanking the donors," she answered, all teeth and sweetness for the sake of the cameras. "And then again when the Mayor was cutting the ribbon? And when I was giving my speech? And when..." She felt the vibration against her hip again as they turned, and frowned. "You're sweating, Tony."

Tony blinked, smile frozen in place. "It's hot in here?"

They turned again, and this time it wasn't a vibrating phone that grazed hotly her thigh. Pepper smirked. "That's _not_ a gun in your pocket."

"I am happy to see you though," Tony answered. "You spent a long time in Madrid, and I really missed Jesus _Christ_!" He flinched away as the phone started vibrating again, scrambling to get it out of his pocket while Pepper snickered. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I missed you, not him. Just let me turn my phone off, and I'll-"

"Oh, just give it here," she said, plucking the phone from his fingers. She stepped inside his reach before he could grab it back, pressing up to his chest and draping both arms over his shoulders. "No, we're dancing right now," she warned, catching his groping hand and putting it back onto her hip. "We're dancing and I'm keeping that Vanity Fair photographer from noticing how look like you're about to come in your pants."

"Oh God, Pepper. I am, too," Tony breathed, dropping his forehead against her shoulder. He was trembling just a little. "It's not my fault. All right, it is my fault a little, but it totally wasn't my idea, and I swear I didn't-"

"Shh," she soothed as the screen unlocked under her thumb, "You're babbling, Honey. Dance instead." Then she read the text. Then she read the text again, just to be sure. Then she had to ask, "Panty hose, Tony? Really?"

Tony grimaced. "Can I just explain?"

"No, I really don't think you can," she replied, kissing him on the nose and rubbing a furtive hand along his thigh. Sure enough, the fabric slid easily, hiss-whispering against tight, silky layer beneath it. Tony shivered hard and arched up like he couldn't actually stop himself. "So... is Steve wearing panty hose under his tux too?" she asked, glancing around the ballroom for some sign of the looming blond Captain.

"Yeah. His idea," Tony sighed, nodding toward the stage, where a knot of blue haired ladies were holding court around the hero they all remembered from their glory days. "To get me back for sending him to my tailor for the tuxedo."

"Without a chaperone?" she asked as he turned them again, "Ouch." Perry was an artist with cloth and thread, and Steve Rogers was one hell of a grand canvas. He looked damn fine in the new tux, but Pepper was pretty sure Tony deserved more than a set of tight underwear to make up for the mortification Steve must have been put through during the fittings. 

"He doesn't look too bothered right now though," Pepper mused, noting Steve's easy smile, and the lack of flustered pink in his cheeks, even though half the board of Maria Stark Foundation trustees were flirting at him. His eyes flicked up, caught hers for a moment, then hung up on the phone in her hand. _Then_ the color spread over his handsome face, and his smile didn't slip, but it might have gotten a little worried until Pepper smiled back at him.

Tony made a sound that hung somewhere in the middle ground between groan and whimper. "Scroll back," he managed with a shiver. 

Pepper did, and had to stifle a giggle. "Wow. Twice, huh?" She gave Steve a thumbs-up sign, and he went even redder. "Well I hope he washed his hands before he helped any of them to punch." Tony laughed with her, or rather he tried to, but the sound choked off short, strangled in his convulsive shiver. The clench of his hands on her waist was almost painful before he dragged himself back under control again. 

There was a slight commotion beside the buffet tables – someone in a pop-art couture dress made of book pages got too close to one of the candles and had to be patted out when her sleeve caught fire. No harm done, far as Pepper could see, and it was over quick enough that the band didn't even have time to stop playing, but it did handily draw every reporter and cameraman in the room to the scene. 

"Sooo," she ventured as the starlet's handlers hustled her out, and her audience followed, snapping and flashing all the way. "Let me see if I've got this right. You set your handsy tailor on Steve to pretty him up for the gala. Steve dared you to wear panty hose under your tux tonight in revenge for that. He's already... handled the problem it created for him-"

"Twice..." Tony moaned.

"Twice," she agreed, brushing close enough to hiss the word into his unguarded ear. "So what's stopping you then?"

He shivered and stopped dancing altogether. "Pepperrrr..."

"Is there some kind of scoring system here?" she murmured. "Does it only count if he's watching you? Do you need his permission to get off? Do you _want_ his permission to get off?" She glanced up, and found herself once more pinned by the arclight blue of the Captain's stare, fierce and canny, and anything but innocent now that his fan club had joined the gawkers outside. 

"He's looking at us," she whispered, letting her hips cant close so the beads of her gown hissed and rustled against Tony's trapped erection. "He's looking at _you_ , Tony. Watching you like a hungry lion. Do you think he knows you're about to come right now -- right in your pants, like a teenager?" Tony's hand splayed against Pepper's back, jerked her right up tight against him as he strangled a groan in his throat. Merciless, she ground right back into him, lips brushing his ear as she whispered, "Do you think he's been waiting all night to see it?"

That was all it took. Tony managed to keep it quiet as he came apart under her hands, and if any of the photographers trickling back into the ballroom noticed, his face was turned safely into the fall of her hair as he jerked and pulsed and quivered against her. Pepper held him through it, fingers curled in his hair while she watched Steve slowly flush as he failed to look away. By the time Tony finally began to relax under Pepper's hands, Steve had adjusted himself twice and edged behind one of the buffet tables to conceal what was going on beneath his well-cut trousers. Which, if this was round three for him, was actually pretty damned impressive in Pepper's books.

"Feel better?" she asked Tony after a moment, spurring them into gentle motion again.

Tony huffed a laugh and picked up his face at last, his grin loose, goofy, and adoring. "Sticky, but yeah."

"Mm," she smirked. "I'm a bit sticky myself. Why don't we both make a stop by the washroom and sort things out. Then we can get out of here and find something else to do?"

Jerking back with mock alarm, Tony stared. "You want to ditch a PR event before the Fat Lady's solo? Who are you, and what have you done with my Pepper?"

She laughed. "Your Pepper has to go back to Malibu day after tomorrow, and wants a little relief from all this tension before she gets on the plane. But if you really want to stay and socialize a little more, I guess my hand and I can just take some extra time in the bathroom..."

He peered. "Can I come with?"

"No," she laughed, stepping out of his arms and heading off the dance floor, "Pantyhose or not, you do not pass for a girl tonight, and buying off your public nuisance citations got boring a long time ago." She pushed the door that let out into the hallway, and turned to peck a kiss on Tony's cheek. "Why don't you go tell Steve to meet us in the car when you two are done in the gentlemen's, and we can..." She stopped, confused as his fingers slipped abruptly from hers.

Tony edged out into the hallway and shut the door, bouncing on his toes. His face was set in that jittery, hunted expression he sometimes got when he expected to be told off, and knew he didn't have any sane defense. "It's not like that," was all he managed to say.

She raised her eyebrows. "It's not like that?" He shrugged. "Then how is it? Because those texts seemed pretty 'like that' from where I was standing." He shrugged again, looking even guiltier than before. "For heaven's sake, Tony, I helped Steve get that message to you _weeks_ ago! What have you two been doing since then?"

"Um. Dialoguing. "

She crossed her arms and cocked her head. "Something tells me that's not a lot like actual talking, is it?"

"There's talking! We talk. We totally talk. Loads of talking, all the time, him and me."

"And no action because...?"

"Well, it's just. We're not. I mean he's not... you know, in his day it was totally not, you know, done. Not a done thing. I mean it just wasn't, and he's Army and all, but he's really just..." more inexplicable hand flapping there. "And I'm _me_ , and you _know_ what that's like, and he's only recently started to like me at all, and that's when I'm on my _good_ behavior, so we don't actually have all that much to-" he actually looked a bit relieved when Pepper leaned in and put a finger against his lips to stop the excuses dribbling out. 

"Tony," she said, holding up his phone so the exchange of texts couldn't be missed.

"Mmhmm?"

She slipped his phone into his pocket, kissed him once on the nose, and led the way toward the exit. "Less talk. More action."

~*~

The phone rang while Steve was out running, dumping adrenaline and wet dreams into speed and sweat and miles of pavement underfoot. He'd had to learn how to reset ringtones after Tony and Clint had found his phone in the team lounge one day, so once he heard the cheery tune, Steve knew better than to ignore the call.

"Hello Ms. Potts," he said, stepping into a doorway to let the early morning traffic pass him by.

"Oh please no, don't do that," she answered, laughing. "Because if you won't use my given name then I can't use yours, and I'll never I'll never manage to call you Mr. Rogers with a straight face."

He grinned, taking her point. He'd encountered the children's show in his first weeks out of the ice, when he'd first been learning the ways of Google, and while he'd found it charming, it was rather difficult to take seriously. "All right Pepper," he said. "What can I help you with?"

"I just needed to let you know that we've had to cancel the interview with Tattler Magazine today."

"Oh thank God," Steve breathed before he caught himself. "Erm. I mean..."

"No, I'm relieved too," she answered with a laugh. "Even the PR department isn't sure how that awful rag got onto the interview schedule, but we got a tip that they were setting up another scandal stunt – you remember last May, with the bogus restraining order?"

"I remember," Steve grimaced. "Still say that kid oughta be in jail for pulling a stunt like that on Bruce. So the interview's definitely canceled then?"

"As canceled as a well written sci-fi series on Network TV. You may now thank me profusely."

"Would you like me to shine your shoes to show my gratitude?" he grinned in answer to her smugness. "Wash your car? Maybe bake you a pie? I bake a pretty mean gratitude pie."

She laughed like small, sweet bells. "Gratitude pie is my favorite, actually, but I'll have to take a raincheck on that. I'm on my way to the airport right now, and will be in Malibu for the next week. Just found out about the interview being canceled though, and Tony's not answering his phone."

"Oh, he's still in the shower, I bet," Steve said, unthinking. A moment of knowing silence later, he found himself blushing hard and stammering, "I mean he was in the shower earlier, before I went out for a run. Um." Pepper snickered then, a muffled sound, like she'd hid it under her hand, but Steve had learned to recognize the sound of feminine amusement about two months after he'd started dating. He wasn't fooled, but he was blushing to beat the band. 

"That is, someone mis-delivered a package to my apartment last night," he pressed on doggedly, glad she couldn't see his burning face, "It had Tony's name on it. I took it up there this morning, but Jarvis said he was in the damn shower, so I just left it in the living room."

"Oh, that's a shame," Pepper replied, not even trying to disguise the laughter in her voice now. "I must have just missed you, and him too. He was still down in the workshop when I left, and I know better than to bother him there in the morning unless I come naked or bearing coffee." There was a pause then as she murmured to someone on the other end of the line, and when she came back the smile was still in her voice, but the laughter had settled down. "So I left Tony a message, but I wonder if you'd mind making sure he doesn't show up to the interview anyway?"

Steve blinked. "Is he likely to? I mean it _is_ the Tattler."

"And you have no idea how much he hates that rag, Steve, or how much he loves trolling the press in general. It'd be in character for him to show up anyhow, just to see if he could completely upset their intended script and make them look bad." Which, now Steve thought about it, was something he could see Tony doing, despite knowing that the power of editing-for-worst-light was firmly in the magazine's hands. Nobody liked a set-up, but Tony sure liked to set them on fire.

"All right," he said, and turned to head back to Manhattan. "I'll see if I can distract him."

"I'm sure you'll have no trouble with that," Pepper answered with a chuckle. "See you Friday, Steve." And with that, the line went dead.

Steve indulged himself in a great, heaving sigh, and then pocketed his phone again. He ought to have expected that Pepper would eventually join the rest of the team in the sly hints, amused insinuations, and bold-faced suggestions about Tony and him, but he really was beginning to wish he'd never asked for her help. 

That first video he'd made had seemed like a good idea at the time – a barracks-room joke to rouse Tony from his sulk, a jostle to bring the man back on point, nothing obligatory, nothing overt, but just enough to break the funk. And it had worked damn well at the time, too. When Tony started firing back though, the whole thing had taken right off. Call and response, one-upping each other and swapping teasing slaps. It had been fun spinning the whole thing up, but it had gained speed and altitude damned quickly, and it hadn't been until Steve overheard Tony referring to it as a game that he'd realized his mistake. 

It _was_ a game -- at least it was to Tony, and Steve had anted up without knowing the stakes, the rules, or even how to win... and now, several turns along, all Steve knew for sure was that he'd gone all-in. Everything Steve had was lying on the table, and he had no way of guessing how hard Tony was betting, whether he'd care if he won, or notice it if he lost -- whether he'd stick around for another hand afterward, take his winnings and leave the table, or roll on to another game with higher stakes. By all appearances, after all, Tony did still have Pepper in reserve, while Steve had nothing at all to turn back to when the game was over.

So all Steve could do at this point was stall. His strategy was to bluff as hard as he could, keep raising the stakes just enough with each reply to stave off the inevitable moment when Tony would call him out, and win or lose, the game would end. Because Tony Stark might be able to make a game out of what happened when the camera turned off, and the cards hit the table but Steve, for all he'd bid goodbye to the White Picket Fence dream some time ago, still wasn't sure he'd be able to just put on his trousers, cash out his chips and go. Not without leaving a pretty big part of himself behind.

No, he told himself, taking a bracing breath and straightening his shoulders, there was no point getting broody like this. He'd survived Rheumatic fever, Project Rebirth, boot camp, Bucky's voracious appetite for redheads, the Red Skull, a seventy-five year long ice-nap, losing Peggy, and Loki's idea of a fun day; a little crush on Tony Stark sure as heck wasn't gonna kill him. 

"Hey Steve!" He drew up short and found Beth waving to him over the cafe's patio railing. "You missed your friends," she said as he headed over to say hello. "They were just here."

"They were?" he frowned, worried now that he might have to chase Tony down before he got to the Tattler's offices. That would be a tough one, since the odds were really high that he'd take the armor for maximum chaos potential.

"Yeah," Beth said. "Red, Guns, Goldie, and the Dishy Doc were all in for pancakes a little while ago. Said they had an unexpected morning off, so they were gonna take Goldie to the zoo. Apparently he doesn't believe in Pandas." Steve grinned at the nicknames, and the glee Beth took in referring to her famous regular customers that way. 

"No Shellhead?" he asked, and ever the devoted fan, she gave him a stern look as she shook her head.

"Guns said that _Iron Man_ had a new toy to play with. They ordered breakfast for both of you before they went though." She nodded back toward the till counter, and the starstruck manager who never could manage to ring Steve out without gushing a little. "Kitchen should be just about done with the order if you want to wait for it. Or I can just have it sent over if you're in a rush."

Unsure, Steve peered up at the tower, as if he could judge Tony's presence or absence through the windows from this distance. Then he remembered his phone. "Jarvis?" Steve asked the blank screen as Beth took that for his answer and went to get the food. 

"Yes, Captain Rogers?" Jarvis answered as the phone's screen flickered to life, displaying the A that was all the signage left clinging to Stark Tower after the Battle of Manhattan.

"Is Tony still at home?" Steve asked.

"Sir is in his apartment, yes."

"Is he awake?"

"Sir appears to be getting dressed," Jarvis answered after a pause, and Steve grimaced. The only reason Tony would take long enough to deserve the hesitation was if he was getting polished up for the press, and under the circumstances, _that_ wasn't a good sign.

"I'm on my way with breakfast," Steve said to Jarvis as Beth came out with a bag and two paper cups in a carrier tray. "Do you think you can keep him from leaving before I get there?" 

Jarvis' voice almost sounded amused when he replied. "That should be possible, Captain. When should I expect you?"

"Five minutes," Steve said, signing the invoice and adding a nice tip for Beth's trouble. "Ten at the most. Just don't let him leave."

"The big guy having another genius moment?" Beth asked, all sympathy and barely restrained adoration as Steve put the phone away again.

"Let's hope not," he said, flashing her a smile as he strode off toward home, and his latest chance to save the world -- or rather, to save the Tattler from the baser instincts of one Tony Stark. Which was kind of ironic when he thought about it, but that was, apparently, his life. 

He made it to the tower quickly enough -- the bags in his hands, and the aggressive pace of his stride dissuaded the normal crop of autograph seekers from holding him up too long. Bypassing his normal run up the tower's north staircase, Steve headed for the express elevator Jarvis waiting for him in the lobby. It set off with a stomach-dropping rush the instant Steve was clear of the doors, and as he always did in the final moments before an engagement, Steve took stock of his resources. 

He didn't have a clever ruse in mind to talk Tony out of crashing his own interview, didn't know what the set up was supposed to have been, didn't have a More Important Mission to wave in his face like a matador's cape... but Steve did have two cartons full of pancakes, omelets and bacon, and Steve figured if that didn't slow Tony down, the coffee would make a decent hostage, at least.

The living room was empty when the elevator opened, but Steve could hear music coming from Tony's bedroom, along with the distracted muttering that was par for Tony's course. He smiled, relieved that he'd made it in time, and headed into the kitchen to dish the food out onto real plates. 

Tony often tried to insist there was nothing wrong with eating out of styrofoam, but Steve just hated using the thin, brittle plastic utensils that went along with takeaway food, and real cutlery just went straight through the cartons. He'd rather wash a couple of plates in the service of eating like a civilized human being than risk wearing syrup all down his pants legs, thanks.

Steve set the plates on Tony's breakfast bar, and carried Tony's coffee to the door of his room, intending only to knock, call out, let the man know he was there. Politeness. Like any civilized visitor should do.

Except the door was only half closed, and when he stepped close to tap on it, Steve found himself frozen by the sight of Tony half naked, poured into crimson and gold leather – leggings gleaming soft and heavy underneath shorts that were so tight Steve could see every muscle flex as Tony struggled with the waist cincher he was trying to put on over the top of it.

He closed his eyes, clenched them hard, held his breath and told himself to wake the hell up, because that could _not_ be real. But then Tony's frustrated curse had him looking again, tracing the cunning black stitch lines that mimicked the Iron Man's articulation, watching the morning light pour like oil over the fine leather and strike dazzling sparks from the tiny gold rivets. His heart felt like it was looking for a way out of his ribcage, his prick was suddenly strangled against his fly, and Steve was utterly, hopelessly transfixed.

He pushed himself upright off the doorframe, knowing in some distant reach of his mind that he really should not be spying on his friend this way, that he should back away, should strategically retreat to the living room, or the bathroom by the kitchen maybe.... But then Tony grunted again, his shoulders flexing, dragging the cincher's lacings hard across his back before he flung the boned leather onto the bed and cried, "How the hell does this damned thing even go ON?"

And with a feeling of inevitability, like a skipping stone going under halfway across the stream, Steve heard himself answering, "Too tight..."

~*~

The voice was low, hungry, and _right_ behind him, and Tony was jumping out of his skin before he even realized it. Too close to the bed, he staggered and flailed as he came down, falling instead of braced for impact. His outthrust hand was caught in a firm grip, and Tony yelped as his assailant used it to tug the rest of him up against...

Oh. Oh fuck yeah... Oh wait. Oh _shit_!

"You've got it too tight," Steve said as his hand curled around his waist, clasping Tony's whole body up against his. "Busk won't close unless it's really, really loose."

Adrenaline charge or not, it was all Tony could do not to melt into the towering heat of all that Steve braced up against his back like that. Especially given that he could feel Steve's prick like a bar of iron against the curve of his ass, and god _damn_ was that ever inspiring. He stared down at the cutwork jacket and leather cowl, and felt his face heat up. "This..." he managed after a moment, "This isn't what it looks like."

"Isn't it?" Steve's breath gusted hot across the back of Tony's ear, and he shivered hard. "'Cause it sure looks like you in leather pants and nothing else."

"Thong," Tony said, then swallowed hard and leaned in a little harder. "There's, um, a silk thong. For under the... they're not technically pants though, are they? The, um, chaps. And the shorts. Can't call them anything else, can you? Shorts is shorts, I guess." He was babbling again, of course, spinning words and mortification into whatever advantage he could make of them while Steve just held him up and rubbed tiny, maddening circles over Tony's hip with one thumb.

"And what's all that?" Steve asked, his voice rumbling a little lower. Tony felt him nod at the rest of the outfit, and had to wince.

"It's... Okay first, I wasn't trying to punk you here," he hated how turning to face Steve made that hand fall away from his skin, but Tony knew how much was riding on his sincerity here, and eye-contact was crucial. "I didn't have this made to make fun of..." he hesitated, thrown off his equivocation by the confusion in Steve's eyes. "You don't... recognize...?" He waved a hand at the jacket, corset and cowl, hoping like hell that the original outfit he'd modeled it off hadn't been a bad porno costume after all. He watched the line of concentration form between Steve's eyebrows, and then, when the penny dropped, he could see it hit in the sudden shocked widening of his pupils against the blue.

"This..." he gasped, slipping around Tony to reach for the jacket. "This is just like my old..." The scarlet leather poured over his hands like it was made to drape there, and even from a distance, Tony could see him shiver at its touch. "How did you even know what it-"

"I found..." Tony hesitated, realizing that now might not be the best time to bring up Howard's stalkery, obsessive All Things Cap collection. "... a pretty good reference."

Steve looked up at that, something awed and almost fragile in his eyes. Tony stared back, trying not to hold his breath, because he knew, he just fucking _knew_ this was the point where he either nailed it, or screwed this fragile whateverthefuck they had up irreparably and for all time. There was no middle ground, no room to spin it -- not this time. And what was more, he knew the balance point was entirely in Steve's hands, not his own.

Steve looked at the leather in his hands, brought it up to his face, almost like he couldn't help doing so. Then he took a breath that filled him from the toes upward -- Tony could see him shaking with the effort of it as his eyes rolled closed and his fingers curled in like claws. Then, "Where's the rest of it?" the words rolled out of him with a rumble of heat that made Tony harden up against the shiver.

"Umm..." he waved a hand at the bed. "What you see is..."

Steve laid the jacket down reverently, then bent to spread the corset out neatly on the bed, deft fingers picking loose the strings while his ass dared Tony to make something of it. "You can't wear this next to your skin," he said, voice almost even. "It'll stain – you, and the leather. You should put something underneath it. One of those sleeveless t shirts if you haven't got-"

"Oh," Tony turned back to the box and dug out a wisp of black silk that had perplexed him at first. "Guess that's what this was for?" the silk hissed against his fingers as Steve slid it from his grasp.

"Perfect," he declared, shaking it open and holding it up for Tony to step close and slither into it. And oh fuck yes, those big, solid hands felt even more awesome through that breath of silk, slipping down his sides, thumbs catching on his nipples and no _way_ was that accidental. Tony's shiver turned into a groan, and he didn't even care.

Steve leaned back to get the waist cincher, and then reached around Tony to settle it into place, his arms warm and solid and perfect for all of two seconds. "The busk's always the tricky part," he said, settling down onto the bed and pulling Tony between his knees. "Never could get it done up right on my own." There was a bit of tugging, but then the tabs started to pop through their loops and actually _stay_ there. 

Steve got about halfway down the row, then skipped to the very last one, and peered up at Tony with pure evil in his eyes, and said, "This is the trick to it," as he shoved his hand up inside the corset so he could push on the busk from within. The back of his wrist was wedged tight against Tony's erection, so that every push, every roll of tendon over bone as Steve worked the last stubborn fastenings closed was an exquisite torment.

Worse, though, when Steve grunted in frustration and slipped down to his knees for a better angle, because looking down at all that gorgeous, kneeling right _there_ was the very best kind of torture. Tony deserved a fucking medal for resisting the temptation to bury his hands in Steve's hair and give him a friendly, gentle, pleading nudge -- just in case he'd managed to miss the erection he was rubbing with his wrist.

Then the last stud popped into place, and Tony had to groan from the bottom of his balls as Steve slowly pulled his hand out of the cincher. He dug his fingers into Steve's shirt and tried to get his breathing under control, tried not to come in his pants as Steve put his hands on Tony's hips and just... stayed there for a minute, lips slack and open, eyes dark as he stared at the straining leather like he might try to chew his way through it. Tony could feel every breath as he swayed just _that much closer_ , and fuck it, fuck the game, fuck the duel, fuck the delicate truce, fuck the consequences, Tony was ready to goddamned _beg_ for that mouth on him _anywhere_.

A sudden tension under Tony's hands was the only warning he got before Steve thrust suddenly to his feet, hands still gripping Tony's hips -- for balance now, though that left Tony clinging close against his chest, their cocks all but touching in the tiny sliver of space between them. Steve blinked down, eyes blown, desperate flush across his face, and no matter how he might have lied to Rhodey, Pepper, the team, and himself about it before, Tony couldn't equivocate now; he wanted to be the one to make Steve look like that forever.

"Jacket," Steve murmured, giving himself a little shake and stepping back before Tony could climb on and ride him like he'd stolen him. "Jacket next." 

Tony frowned, not entirely down with the idea of getting even _more_ clothing between them at this juncture. "But the corset's not even-"

"I'll get it," Steve said, stepping away from Tony's reaching hands and dropping the leather cropped jacket into them instead. "I want..." he glanced down, then licked his lips. "I want to see the whole thing."

And what the hell could Tony say to that, but, "Okay... Should I hold onto something?"

"No... no need," Steve said as he helped Tony settle the jacket in place, then took up the strings at Tony's waist and started to draw them in. "Can't go that tight all at once. Ribs are fragile."

"Right," Tony breathed, a little awestruck at how he was reacting to the smooth, solid constriction, and the heady smell of all that tight leather warming to his skin. "Because despite the opinions of the porn industry, hospitals are shitty places to have-" Steve started tightening up the individual strands from the top and bottom toward the middle, each slight yank drawing more words, more _want_ out of Tony's mouth. "-have filthy... horny... fucking spec...tacular... bed-breaking... sex oh fuck, Steve!" 

Tony let his chin fall, focused on Fibonacci sequences until the urge to come in his pants faded down to a dull, throbbing roar. He felt Steve tying off the knot at his waist, snapping the jacket firmly down into place, even shifted his chin so Steve could fasten the buckle under his chin, but Tony absolutely was not _ready_ to feel the tentative brush of lips against the nape of his neck. He jolted back into the touch with a groan, reaching back to clasp Steve's hips up against his own, press that cock into the crease of his ass and just _grind_ , because god _dammit_ , how obvious did he have to _be_ here, anyway?

The vibration of Steve's answering groan raised the hairs on Tony's neck, and a moment later, lips gave way to tongue, too-polite hands to gripping, pawing, pinching, teasing fingers found his sensitive nipples through the silk and rubbed them mercilessly against the smooth rolled top of the corset. And Steve opened his mouth wide, Tony could feel his teeth just resting on his skin, the breath hot and wet, Steve quivering like a string about to break, and all Tony could think was _'Do it! Please, God, do it!'_

Then Steve pushed back, boots heavy on the floor as he fled, leaving only the fading ghost of his handprints behind, and oh _fuck_ no, that was so completely not okay! Tony whirled to follow, staggering just a little on the wide hems of his leggings, but prepared to chase that teasing bastard all the way down to the lobby if he had to.

But Steve had run no farther than the living room, where two plates of pancakes, omeletes and bacon sat congealing on the coffee table.

"What the _fuck_?" Tony blurted, skidding to a stop behind him.

Steve didn't look up, just sighed, "I forfeit."

"You... what?"

"This... game," Steve said, cutting him a sidelong glance more defeated than anything he'd ever seen on that face. "I forfeit. I can't keep ... playing like this." He sighed, and sat down like someone had cut the strings holding him up, elbows on his knees, head dropped into his cupped hands. "You win."

Tony stared for a long moment, the gears in his mind clicking. Then he sat down too, slouched back to spread his arms along the sofa cushions, and braced one foot over his knee. "I win, huh?" he smirked when Steve shot him a cautious glance. "Okay. _What_ do I win? I mean we never settled on terms, did we?"

"No," Steve sighed, sitting up right and squaring his jaw. "No, we didn't."

"Sooo, if I want something specific?"

And the wrinkle of disapproval showed up right on schedule as Steve's brows drew down. "I'm not a welcher."

"Might be naughty," Tony warned, trying not to be _too_ gleeful.

Steve rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like what we been doin's tame. Name your prize, Stark."

Jackpot. Tony let his grin roll out wide, and said. "How about we start with a blowjob?"

That won him a single eyebrow and a scornful look. "No problem," Steve said, standing. Annoyance had steamed the defeat right out of him, and god _damn_ if that didn't look good on him.

"Take off your pants," Tony instructed, halting Steve in place. "Take em off, soldier," he urged, reaching for Steve's belt himself. "I mean I'm good, but giving you a blowjob through denim is even out of _my_ skill range." He used Steve's belt loops to tug him nearer, taking perverse delight in the way he didn't even think of resisting.

"You want to give _me_ -"

"Well yeah," Tony grinned up at him, popping the overstressed button of his trousers and letting zipper unspool over the fierce pressure behind it. Tighty whities. Oh dear God, Tony was in love... "I think I'm gonna need an option to blow you daily, in fact," he said as he wrapped his hand over the bulge and gave it a loving squeeze, smiling as it bucked eagerly into his palm. "That's in addition to mind blowing sex at least once a week, topping negotiable, because I like both ways..." he let his list fade into a mumble, because the wet spot on that white cotton just demanded some attention, and he was only _so_ good, after all.

"Oh... Okay..." Steve whimpered, and Tony cheered inside as those big, strong hands came to rest in his hair. "I can do that."

"And dates," Tony added, since he was on a roll, and needed to back off to get the undies out of the way anyhow. "I get a date at least once a month, just you and me. That's in addition to sofa cuddles, and sleeping over sometimes too and oh Jesus, Steve, I knew your cock was gonna be fucking beautiful..." then his mouth was full again, and Steve's fingers were curling around his skull like it was taking all his willpower not to drive Tony's face down on him.

"Sssssleeping over... Hah... got it," Steve grunted, his hips jerking forward as Tony sucked hard. "Sweet _Christ_! Any... any other demands?"

Tony pulled away with a pop, and had to laugh. "Oh, I'm full of demands," he purred, and stole a long lick. "But you'll have plenty of time to work those out, won't you? Weeks, months, years if you want 'em, right?" That was his out -- the one Tony knew he had to offer, in case he'd read everything completely wrong, and Steve really didn't want in on the long game. He didn't want a lover who felt obligated to be there, but Tony really, _really_ hoped the signs he'd told himself he was seeing earlier were true, because letting go of Steve Rogers once he'd had only one little taste would really, really _suck_. And not in the good way.

"Might - hah! Might take some time to get it down, but..." Steve swiped one thumb along the ridge of Tony's left eyebrow, a gesture that was at once sweetly innocent, fiercely possessive, and sexy as hell. "But if you can be patient with me, I figure I'll get it right sooner or later." 

"Mmmm," Tony nuzzled his ridiculous grin into the soft flesh of Steve's belly. "Patience. Right. I can totally do patience. Now get your damn pants off, and sit down, will you?"

He didn't wait for Steve to finish laughing, just grabbed a double handful of denim and white cotton and yanked the fabric to his ankles. Then he spotted Steve's fall into the sofa, angling him so that Tony could crawl along the magnificent length of those legs and settle down between his knees. He leaned down for a stroke and a lick, taking unabashed glee in the sound it wrung out of Steve. "To the victor goes the spoils," he murmured before filling up his mouth again.

"Spoils," Steve panted, his hands finding Tony's head like they belonged there, "Yeah. All yours, Tony."

And really, how could he ask for more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, my blighted bog blossoms! Thanks for being patient with me over this last section -- life will intrude, alas -- and thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos. You are the stonefruit in my cobbler, and the sugar in my absinthe, and I treasure you all.

**Author's Note:**

> This one won't drag out, my deadly nightshades; it's all but in the bag already. Title and chapter headings are from the [Circus Contraption](http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/circuscontraption3) song: [Nickelodeon.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ADIZR4h0vm8)


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